


Small steps

by mimi_of_the_earth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-19 05:41:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1457812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimi_of_the_earth/pseuds/mimi_of_the_earth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft was a practical woman. She tried to control everything in her life, Sherlock, mummy, and the Queen of England. Greg Lestrade was a good man, it described him perfectly and only because of it he was still alive, even if his wife had a lover… Cheerful, sometimes dark story with snow and twisted knee in the background.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The player and the good man

People called her the iceberg. The heartless woman. The player. She couldn’t disagree, but they weren’t exactly accurate, they didn’t show the whole Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft Holmes was a practical woman. She didn’t like complex cases and she tried to avoid them. 

In her work it wasn’t a good strategy, but in her private life, it saved her more than once, it prevented her from affairs, treasons and humiliation of public scandal and private self – loathing. The older Holmes observed with a pale smile how people paid for their weaknesses, for they need of family and passionate sex. Bastard child of Minister of Finance, Vietnamese prostitute in room that belonged to other Minister, oh and love affair of Vice Minister with some consultant who sold everything to The Sun. People trusted other people and they paid for it. Mycroft didn’t judge. Judgment never brought benefits and for her it was only waste of time. No, Mycroft didn’t judge, she only remembered all of it. 

When she was twenty one she became the right hand of British government, every government, and British Queen was inviting her regularly for teas. It was also the first time when Mycroft felt pressure of society. If she wanted to be an official Minister, she should now think about a candidate for a husband. Without a husband it would be difficult, said specialists from public relations. Voters liked to know what was happening in beds of politicians and they liked sweet little children and small animals. First time in her life Mycroft wondered if the game meant for her that much to do all of these things. Examples showed that it was very hard to find someone you could trust. And the thought of children… who will be like her or worse like Sherlock…

Of course there was always illusory concept of true love. To find a person who would not betray you and for whom you would be important with money or without it, with diabetes in progress and without ideal body. She was far too practical to think about it. Love, sooner or later became a daily battle with small unimportant things. She didn’t like being confused by such things. She predicted that her theoretical marriage would last three years. With her work, her travels and mysteries no men would wanted her longer and women were not an option.

And in her twenties Mycroft decided that she would not take part in any campaign, she would not suffer because of betrayal. She saw many destroyed lives. The Queen and few Ministers were slightly confused by her choice, but they didn’t press.

Mycroft created save routine, behind it she hid everything what wasn’t practical. There were not much, but always. Thoughts and cravings were hidden under daily torturous rhythm. Ritual of morning tea and newspapers, checking sugar in her blood before breakfast, choosing the suit, cold shower, makeup. Ritual of free Sunday in dark-blue robe in front of telly, because it helped to fall asleep. And the most important, ritual of breakfast. She liked it long and big. She didn’t hurry and everyone who worked with her knew that and were waiting patiently till she ate her scrambled eggs. After that she could solved hounded things in a minute, but breakfast was the most important. It was a difference between her and Sherlock, and maybe one day she would really have diabetes because of that. It was hard to accept that heritage disease could attack her, but she didn’t want to resign from her ritual which included peaches’ marmalade, sweet tea and awful, full of chemicals cookies from Tesco. 

So Mycroft ate her breakfast and went to her office where at 1 p.m. she made a break and went for a lunch with Anthea. They didn’t eat it only if there was a war threat. Anthea knew splendid Greek restaurant where Mycroft ate lamb and aubergines. Rituals helped her functioned without doubts and regrets. She felt bad without them, but she could manage it, like after the attack on World Trade Center. She spent two days negotiating, without returning to her home, without shower and on Anthea’s sandwiches and coffee. She was ill after that. Dizziness, migraines. She slept for four days after that and when she thought about husband and a child she knew she did a right thing.

Now, it wasn’t a political choice, it was a common sense. 

Sherlock said how sorry he was that the firstborn of Holmes family didn’t give their mummy legal, official grandchildren. What a shame. Mycroft rarely wanted to hit Sherlock, but that time she really wanted to do that. But she didn’t, she never hurt her brother and she hated herself for it. 

It was their dialogue. Her and Sherlock. About feelings, emotions, about being attached to someone, who was weaker then things and more changeable then wind. They spoke from time to time with breaks, but it was always the same conversation. Inconvenient, uncomfortable but needed. World slowed down, sometimes it stopped and Sherlock Holmes changed for a moment from sarcastic genius, who spitted irony to younger brother, who was a little lost, a little vulnerable.

“Have you ever thought that we should be afraid of what we became?”

“Look at them, so small, thoughtless. They cry, feel and live.”  
And sometimes, when was some special occasion.

“I don’t know how to… It is something wrong with us, that we can’t?”

She never replied on these mostly rhetorical Sherlocks’ questions. Because, Sherlock with his undiagnosed Asperger and isolation and devoting himself to one thing without barriers couldn’t understand all feelings. Of course he had emotions, but without understanding, without empathy. The younger Holmes didn’t chose it, nature made him an ideal politician, but bad luck, he never wanted to be one. He run away from his sister and her society. He preferred to play with his deductions and being detective. Ideal politician, without doubts, without feelings. After ten years of trying she gave up the idea of introduced Sherlock to government. What a shame, because things that were natural for Sherlock, Mycroft had to gain, work on them every single day.

Sometimes, she wanted to be like Sherlock. She wouldn’t have to fight with her emotions. Sherlock didn’t respect social norms, he understood them, but didn’t care. He was concentrated on his own purposes. Mycroft understood and respected social norms, but concentration on her own purposes needed constant attention. Not right sibling was gifted with useful syndrome by god.

Mummy, of course had her own opinion.

“Take care of him, Mycroft. He is thirty and still he lives in such awful places.” She told during one of Sundays’ dinners. “He is so withdrawn. I don’t know how to talk with him.” 

Mummy couldn’t talk with Sherlock since he was five and with stolen equipment from their father cabinet vivisected a cat. There was huge affair, their cook whose cat belonged to was paid and she resigned from her position. After few days Sherlock told Mycroft that cat was dead before he cut it. The youngest Holmes just didn’t think it was important. 

And it was like that. Sherlock didn’t explain his actions, and if he did, it was only to Mycroft, always avoided their busy father and mother who was so into charity that she forgot about her own children. 

“I want to die knowing that you are happy, that you are married, have homes.” Mummy told and feed her dachshund. “You have to look after each other. I am not eternal and one day you will be alone.”

Mycroft nodded and promised whatever mummy wanted. She knew that the elder women, when Mycroft went home, would do something connected with charity, this time probably saving dogs. She cared of her children very rarely and that was good, because her caring was inquiring about grandchildren and marriages. 

“Mummy whish me to look after you, dear brother.”

“You observe me without her wishes, Mycroft. Observing isn’t looking after, it is spying.” 

Daily, they were arguing, using arguments meant to hurt. Mycroft remained Sherlock about his constant problems with money, living in slums and his addiction to adrenaline and worse things. Sherlock said that she was lazy and stupid to play with government and of course he pointed her love for sweets.

Interesting was a fact, that Mycroft always said that Sherlock didn’t have real friends and Sherlock never said that she didn’t have them too. Pot, kettle. Mycroft didn’t pry, she knew it was act of politeness from her brother. Sherlock as a self-declared sociopath couldn’t be framed, but he really was closer to Asperger then being sociopathic. Sherlock didn’t feel the lack of friends, Mycroft could, but didn’t want to. Sherlock didn’t chose so he was in better position, but he never used this against Mycroft. 

Because of that Mycroft never remained him about rescuing him from police and sending to expensive, luxury, rehab center. 

They never talk about it. Twice in his life Sherlock OD. Twice in her life Mycroft saved him, she always claimed she did it for mummy. But the truth was, she did it for herself, because if Sherlock died, she would be completely alone. 

It was Mycroft weakness. Caring for her junkie, little brother. They didn’t talk about at all.

////

She met Lestrade for the first time after Sherlock’s dangerous chase after serial killer. Mycroft thought that her younger brother choose well.

Detective Inspector Greg (he insisted) Lestrade was a right man in a right place. Confident, consequent, he knew what he was doing. He was always few steps further than others in police. And because of that he stayed in the Yard after hours and because of that his wife found herself a lover after ten years of marriage. Stupid woman, but on the other hand, people rarely was intelligent when it came to their relationships.

Greg could play that everything was all right. Mycroft liked this feature in people. Lestrade from the beginning quarrelled with Sherlock, but he also saw in him some kind of potential and he was intelligent enough to use it. From the beginning it looked like a bargain. Sherlock got his adrenaline and mysteries to solve. Lestrade got another solved case. Sherlock could have police files and play in morgue. Lestrade had higher statistics. Mycroft observed, didn’t take part in their play. But one day it changed. Sherlock started drugs again. With some depressive dark humour he decided to check if he was able to solve a case during his high. 

Lestrade caught Sherlock, before he went to the morgue. He caught Sherlock and took him to Molly’s office and gave him a speech about drugs, that even Mycroft was impressed. She recorded everything, material showed that always arrogant Sherlock didn’t look at Lestrade, he tried to be smaller than he was under inspector’s words. Something about access to morgue, Yard archives and crime scenes. The microphone in Molly’s office wasn’t very good, she had to have it better.

Sherlock started his usual ironic speech about blind police officers, who didn’t even know how many times there were betrayed. Lestrade punched him. Younger Holmes was confused, Molly screamed and run for icepack and Mycroft decided that she liked detective inspector Greg Lestrade and that she had to meet him in person.

Sherlock was angry and didn’t show up in Yard for a whole month. He hid in a house of befriended pensioner, whom he rescued from her husband, younger Holmes was thinking and detoxing. No drugs, no cigarettes, only nicotine patches. Lestrade punched not only him but also his ambition. Well, well. It was the first time when Mycroft went to meet inspector and talked with him about her younger brother.

She knew that Lestrade wouldn’t be impressed by her. In his not typical for a police officer career Lestrade had met enough grey eminences and it taught him to not show what he thought. Good.

“Good Morning detective inspector Lestrade. I am here to talk with you about something important. About my brother and his potential cooperation with you.”

Greg stared at Mycroft with calculating eyes of someone who saw many dead bodies and knew that he would see more of them.

“Sherlock, yes. How can I help you?”  
“I want you to give my genius and also unbearable brother a chance.”

She could intimidate him or bribe him with money or privileges. She could but something tell her he was different. She was a man of brain not heart and she hated listening her instincts, but it was also above average so she decided to listen it this one time.

Greg looked at her with attentive eyes. Tired, grey-faced, workaholic, his tie didn’t match to his shirt which had small spot from morning coffee on his cuff. He wasn’t at home for 48 hours, didn’t eat anything besides sweet rolls from cafeteria and caffeine candies. And only his eyes were extraordinary, brown, warm. Somehow they made him alive and trustworthy. Mycroft did her homework. Greg Lestrade was hard working, citizen, middle class, he was married in time had small house on credit, which he would pay for next thirty years. He was so normal, dull average.

He was really good in his role. 

Greg coughed and Mycroft focused on him.

“I will work with Sherlock as a my consultant with pleasure.” He announced with certainty and he smiled. His teeth were surprisingly white and his wrinkles were surpassingly nice. Mycroft hesitantly liked him. Dangerous, dangerous.

“I heard in your voice, mister Lestrade , an unspoken condition. So what do you want?”

Greg flashed her a grin and sat more comfortably. 

“My condition is Sherlock comes to my crime scenes clean and sober. No drugs, he has to be conscious. I am not gonna drag him through whole city, listening his shitty rumble about the material of my coat. Your brother, miss Holmes, has a brilliant mind. I want his help, but I will not tolerate junkies.”

“Sherlock is not a junkie.”

“Not yet.” He cut in. “I saw this many times. Fascination, loneliness. The middle of the story can be different, but the end is always the same.”

Greg was right, Mycroft smiled.

“Detective inspector, you are a very observant man.

“Greg.” He said and gave his hand. “We both clean after Sherlock and it is not the best job on this planet. I think we can stop formalities.”

Mycroft for a long moment just stared at Lestrade. He was interesting. On the other hand Sherlock wouldn’t work with someone completely ordinary, so maybe…

Mycroft took his hand. Strong, sure handshake, his hand was dry and warm with calluses. 

“Mycroft.” She muttered happily observed that Lestrade was still looking at her.  
“I will make sure Sherlock won’t end like in those stories, Greg.”  
“I hope so. To be honest, we need his help, but his… eccentric behaviour brought too many unkind attention. And I am only detective inspector.”  
“Do you want to be more?” Mycroft was curious, she made him saw possibility that she could make him someone more. It would take her three maybe four hours. 

Greg rolled his eyes and hid his hands in pockets of his trousers. He wrinkled his nose in a funny way.

“Oh god, no. I would have drown in paperwork. I didn’t do all those things for years to do paperwork.”

He took her proposition as a joke. Maybe it was better. Mycroft coughed and played with her umbrella. 

“I will talk with Sherlock. It won’t be easy, but manageable. Your team of course will receive a rise for new equipment and other things.”

Greg clenched his hands into fists. His mouth was thin pale line.

“We don’t want anything.”  
“Oh.” Mycroft said not trying to hide disappointment. “Why didn’t you want my help? You are helping me by taking care of my genius brother and give him a chance to entertain him with something different than drugs. Please let me do something in return.”  
“I don’t want any debts.” Greg said politely, but his eyes were serious. “When your brother is bored, he sits in morgue and he helps Molly Hooper with victims of car accidents. He is guessing car brands after them. The only thing you should do is to talk to him, Mycroft. Nothing more, nothing less.”

It was something funny in the conversation with small, grey policeman who talked with her like with someone equal. She could just destroyed him at least on four ways, physically and economically, yet he wasn’t scared at all. He was looking into future.

There was something nice in that. Lestrade didn’t retreat, didn’t hide his intentions. He was open, trusted into stupid system, that should prevented him, because he was clean. People like Lestrade were extremely rare. It was easier to bribe few people to have things you needed than looked for one good human being who would help you, because he trusted you. 

Lestrade wasn’t hypocrite or idiotic moralist. He just didn’t see everything.

Mycroft liked him and she wanted to show it. Step by step. Greg would win with her frontal attack, but he would probably be caught into some kind of trap. Good, Mycroft was never good in frontal attack, she let Sherlock act like that, she preferred intrigues and traps. 

“Sooner or later, you will agree to my proposition, Greg. I will wait.”  
“That what I am scared of.” He gave her tired smile. He looked like he drank too much coffee. “Younger Holmes and older Holmes. You are surpassingly similar.”  
“Oh, certainly I am nicer and my manners are better than his.” She acted like very offended person, Greg rolled his eyes one more time.  
“And very modest in addition.”

Mycroft wasn’t sure for a second, but intuition told her to not let Greg Lestrade so soon. She needed to be sure about their bargain. Probability that Sherlock would work as a consultant was very big. Genius or not, her brother needed someone on his side in the Yard.

“Can I invite you for a dinner, Greg?” She asked tried to sound friendly, but it probably didn’t work, because Greg face wasn’t amused anymore, it became rather cool and suspicious.  
“I am busy.”

She knew when someone was telling fuck off in nice way. With a smile, she stood up and said something ironic about Greg’s office. 

“Don’t worry, I will take care of Sherlock.”

Mycroft tried not to smile.

“Thank you, see you soon detective inspector.”

She was satisfied with the meeting. So she gave herself a free evening. She was sitting in Diogenes and stared at sun set. She felt peace and she was sure that soon something bad would happen, something that would make her world spin in a way it never did.

But tonight nothing happened.

//////

Sherlock was avoiding Yard for few weeks more. Greg didn’t do anything about it nor Mycroft. They observed and waited. From time to time they texted each other. Lestrade was very calm when he understood that Mycroft could observe everything by CCTV and that she had every telephone number.

The first text Greg sent to Mycroft was during her meeting in Foreign Office. Minister wasn’t very happy when her mobile vibrated, but he couldn’t say anything, Mycroft was a person who had to have her mobile constantly switched on. Metter of a state. She and Anthea were always online.

She apologized and proposed another chocolate cookie to Minister while she was reading the text.

“Hello, Sherlock is in hospital. Everything under control. GregLestrade”

For a moment she just looked at the text. She had to look strange, because Minister asked if it was good time for their meeting.

“No, everything is all right.” She smiled. “Tea?”

Why Lestrade wrote a text when everything was under control? First why he had this number, second what happened to Sherlock if Lestrade was taking care of him in hospital?

“Who gave you my number? MH”

“Sherlock, he asked for some things, he has only his coat. St Barts, second floor, building C.”

Fast, good. Minister ate his third cookie. Sherlock would bite his hand off than just ask her for help. Lestrade wrote, Lestrade sent the message. That meant Sherlock was unconscious., but he gave him her number. 

Sherlock interrupted some smugglers and he was running away straight into November Thames. Hypothermia, mild concussion, broken wrist. Greg saved Sherlock from drowning. It was like he just helping all those strange , slightly crazy people he met. 

“Thank you, inspector Lestrade. MH”

She came to hospital with a bag with Sherlocks’ clothes. Minister was happy after their conversation. Few telephones and emails from Anthea later she knew everything about Thames incident. And she had to pay for it, Greg deserved some reward.

Sherlock was lying in hospital bed and he looked like a kid. Lestrade sat on plastic chair next to him in ugly t-shirt and some trousers from some nurse. So his wife didn’t come. Mycroft had guessed that and had clothes also for him.

“You don’t have to thank me, I would do that for anyone.” Lestrade said, his face was strangely pale. “Sherlock or not, no one deserves to be drown in Thames.”

Strange silence. Mycroft stood and stared at Greg. No one deserved to wait for someone who wouldn’t come. No one deserved to can’t call his wife and tell her he was in hospital and needed some things. Mycroft wanted to put her hand on his shoulder and it was a surprise for her. She didn’t remember the need of touching someone, visits in exclusive brothels didn’t count. She destroyed this need.

“Don’t wait for your wife, Greg.” She said quietly, then she put down bag for Sherlock and she took out the smaller bag for Lestrade. She gave it to him.

“If someone didn’t come during an hour, it means she doesn’t come at all.”

Greg shrugged and looked through the window. It was raining.

“I know, I know, thanks, I will give it to you when I have a chance.”

He was humiliate. Mycroft thought that clothes would be send by post and their unofficial contacts would be broken soon.

“You saved my brother, you don’t have to thank me. If you are ready, my limousine is to your disposition. I will take you wherever you want.”

It was funny, how easy it would be to take Greg to her empty mansion. She could finally use a fireplace and they could drink something, wine, beer.. 

“My car is on the bridge…” Greg said.  
“I know. My people took it to your house.”

Greg didn’t protest. When Mycroft talked with doctors Lestrade went to the bathroom and changed his clothes. Ten minutes later they went to her limousine. When they sat she decided it was a time for a conversation. She wanted to spend this evening in different way than usually, but Greg would not come with her without conversation.

“You saved him, but don’t think he will come to you and say thank you.” She announced, Greg smiled grimly.  
“I know, he is good at being angry at people.”  
“Wait, he will understand, he needs cooperation with you.” She told him. His smile became more natural. He breathed deeper.  
“I hope so. Sherlock is crazy, but he is my crazy. He works for me, even if he never said it.”  
“I am sorry for your wife.”

Gregs’ brown eyes became hard. Mycroft observed this change with fascination. Maybe she shouldn’t look at him, maybe it would be more politely. But no, Greg clenched his jaws, and said in low voice. Honestly. Honesty of Greg was marvelous to look at and scary to feel. And she felt addicted to this.

“My wife has betrayed me for four years. I am used to it.”  
“Why you didn’t divorce?”

Greg was silent. Mycroft felt uncomfortably and stared through the window. She shouldn’t ask. She knew why his marriage was still a thing like many others. People just liked when there was someone who waited for them at home. And that someone could have affairs, ignore them from time to time and forget about important things, but she came back. And as long as she came back, it meant she loved and the marriage was a thing.

Mycroft never could understand this kind of thinking, she never had been with someone longer than two weeks. 

“I invite you for a drink… in my place.” It was surpassingly hard to ask such an easy question. Greg sighted funny and looked at Mycroft, honest, tired eyes.  
“I won’t be a good companion tonight.”  
“I am never a good companion, so it makes us two.” She said. Greg laughed. Nice, she wanted to hear it more often.

Greg didn’t protest when she told the chauffer to go to her mansion. In wool dark coat and in suit worth more than all his credits Lestrade looked really good. Mycroft thought that she should start replaced his wardrobe. And then other things, like this ugly, middle class house with small garden.

It was a nice evening. Behind big windows rain was still pouring. Blue – violet London was shining with lamps . Her mansion was silent and dry.

They took of their coats and went to the living room. Mycroft tried to start fire, but she couldn’t so Greg did that. 

She looked at Greg’s movement, sure and fluid. After few minutes she realized she was still looking at him. So she just went for a whiskey and to the kitchen for something to eat. She discovered that there were only tuna, tomatoes and her Tesco’s cookies.

“You rarely have guests.” Greg said with a smile while he was observing her with amusement.  
“Well, I don’t have time for pleasures like that.”

Greg laughed and helped her with plates.

“You don’t like guests so you don’t invite them. Dust on your fireplace betrayed you, madame Holmes.”  
“You are right detective inspector, excellent deduction.”  
“But you invited me.” He said, Mycroft sighed and showed to him plate with Tesco’s cookies.  
“I thought, we both need some companion tonight.”  
“You thought good, but I thought that your house will be full of people, you now servants and bodyguards.”

Greg shrugged. They went back to the living room. Mycroft ate a cookie. 

“House full of people it is not a house. I have a maid, she is here once in two days. I cook, so it saves my time and is more safe.”  
“Did someone try to poison you?” Greg ask like he thought she was joking. Mycroft smiled and ate one more cookie.  
“Not once.”

They laughed together and their voices were strange in that empty, dark mansion Mycroft called home. 

The idea of inviting Greg was one of the best of her ideas just after her agreement that Czech Republic and Lithuania could be a part of European Union. So they drank whisky, ate cookies and talked. About nothing and everything. Greg said that he was stupid, because he didn’t want the divorce even if he was tired of all of it. Mycroft confessed that she hated coming back to the mansion, because it didn’t look like a home and she didn’t know what home was at all. Holmes residence was like that too, rich and empty. But they had whisky and cookies.

She didn’t think that this awful day would end that nice. She wanted it last longer, she wanted Greg just stayed where he was. She could arrange free time for him and just do whatever middle class did in their free time. Mycroft never did anything like that. She wasn’t impulsive. Probably too much whisky and chocolate cookies.

Around three a.m despite the invitation to spend a night in a guest bedroom Greg was driven to his home. Tipsy and happily telling her that they had to do this one more time. Mycroft didn’t agree but she also didn’t say no. It was better to hide your needs, especially when they were crazy and so uncharacteristic for her.

///////////////

It was raining for three days. Mycroft was surpassingly happy and she managed every possible and impossible things for British government. But December was coming. Christmas were coming. She hated Christmas.

Sherlock was released from the hospital week after his accident. He was sore and unhappy. Mycroft didn’t want to see him and she didn’t have time for it. Too many things before Christmas depression. She was lucky that Mrs Hudson took care of her thirty year old, adopted, nearly 6,5 feet tall child and she was feeding him. How she made Sherlock eat? No one knew, but whatever she did, Mycroft was impressed. She promised herself to uninstall few cameras from Mrs Hudson flat.

Days were full of lonely breakfasts, diplomats, negotiations and lunches with Anthea. In the evenings she made fire and mansion was more bearable.

/////////////

Mycroft was afraid Greg would think she was strange if she started sending him messages. Not every day. Just from time to time. She didn’t wanted to scare her potential helper and she didn’t want him thinking about her as a controlling maniac, even if she really was someone like that. Sherlock always emphasized this.

“Live for yourself Mycroft, don’t bother society.”  
“Pot kettle, dear brother, Mrs Hudson called, it is time to pay your own bills.”

Sherlock made a face and played something dramatic on his violin. Mycroft smiled.

But Greg wasn’t Sherlock and he didn’t mind texts. So they texted regularly. At the beginning about Sherlock of course, then weather, probably they would evolve to another topic. 

Maybe from weather they would go to politic.

“Sherlock have been sitting in Baker Street for four days. MH.”  
“Maybe he died from boredom? GL”  
“I don’t think so, he likes shows too much to die in silence. MH”

She still didn’t understand why this grey, ordinary man was in her daily schedule. His texts weren’t very funny or interesting but it was good to read them. Without money or promises Greg Lestrade involved Mycroft in his life. Firstly she didn’t believe in his good intentions, but she gave up. Nothing wrong would happen if she allowed herself for some normality, from time to time.

So it was normal to text with barely known policeman who should get a divorce and who spent nearly all his days in work. Mycroft never were good at normality, she found it dull and depressive.

She didn’t have friends. When she was a child she couldn’t communicate with other children, because they were too stupid. She ended Oxford when she was 21 with the best grades possible. She didn’t have time for parties and other things students did. All friendships ended, all relationships ended, sooner or later everyone was abandoned by people who were trusted. Better when you were needed then liked, when you were needed it was harder to abandon you.

Mycroft allowed herself to exchange those texts with Greg. They had practical purpose, she would know the person who would monitor Sherlock. But there was something different, shameful. Mycroft didn’t like to think about it.

“You were right, I should do something about my marriage. GL”

Maybe Greg was in the same situation as her and he didn’t have anyone to talk to.

She didn’t reply on this text. He probably understood she didn’t want to know about his private life. After that he stopped sending private texts, they came back to Sherlock. And she caught herself on the thought that she didn’t mind texts about his life, she was missing them. But it was too late.

She wanted to ask why, but she knew he would stop communicating at all. She didn’t want that. It felt good to read about weather in London. It felt like he just liked her enough to send meaningless texts. 

Sherlock of course had to be stupid when it came to work with Lestrade, but Greg just started talking to him and sending him texts about interesting cases.

“Just show him what he misses. And he will come to you. MH”  
“He came to the crime scene when he heard about one more mystery death. He thought that it is a serial killer. GL”  
“Probably it is. MH”

Sherlock tried to be nicer toward Greg but not toward Donovan or Anderson. Yarders really liked the show when Sherlock with one sentence could change Anderson in angry red faced cloud. Greg tried to intervene. Mycroft was really happy to have Lestrade. Sherlock didn’t do drugs, he didn’t even smoke, but he was missing something in his life and it made him even less bearable for people. 

“And he was such a beautiful boy, I had never thought that he will have so many problems with finding a wife…” Mummy nodded, during one of Sundays’ dinners, on which Sherlock of course didn’t come. “I am worry about him.”

Mycroft smiled. Mummy was sad for few seconds. Her sadness was always the same. Mycroft was the one who was really worried, she was the one who rescued Sherlock from psychosis, dark humours, she helped him. And it was worse. Winter was coming and Sherlock thirty second birthday. And Mycroft was sure that taking care of Sherlock would be her eternal task.

Sherlock thought the same, so he wreaked havoc. Mrs Hudson could stand him, but when he was out of money she gave him ultimatum. After conversation with Mycroft of course. And it was how Sherlock found his doctor Watson.

When she saw them, she knew that John would be Sherlock’s sooner or later. It was only matter of time.

///////////////////////

To know doctor Watson, Mycroft for three days didn’t do anything with Eastern Europe. She couldn’t let anyone used Sherlock. His genius didn’t matter in this case, because with some things he was as naïve as a child. So Mycroft made sure no one tried to used him. She was lucky he didn’t have sexual relationships. She didn’t know if he didn’t do this, because he didn’t know how to be in relationship or because he was practical like Mycroft.

Mycroft made research about John Watson. She arranged a meeting. She showed her power, the power of information. And according to her deduction doctor Watson caught the bait, he had to be really bored without action, because he didn’t think much when he went to the black car knowing that he was observed. 

John Watson went into the game with bravery, hands that didn’t shake and he was ready to fight. He was interested in, intrigued, by the idea of London as a battlefield. Even if he was in negation and wanted to have normal home and wife without blowing up experiments, crazy flatmate, violin and grey eminence of British government, who was always observing. 

“You are not scared.” Mycroft said, John just replied.  
“You are not scary.”

It was nearly funny. Sherlock should never let his Watson go, because he was interesting. Enough interesting and crazy to live with Sherlock and maybe make his life happier.

And he was loyal, even if he met Sherlock few days ago he didn’t want money. She tried this with many people, Sherlock always guessed and people resigned from their roles. Because her brother if he wanted could be unbearable and any money couldn’t change that.

Mycroft learnt fast and she realized that she had to have different relation with people around Sherlock. Not economical, but still she had to know what was going on. Like with Greg, or Mrs Hudson, who was nice and very grandmother like but she refused any bribes, announced that Sherlock was a cute young man maybe a little crazy, but he didn’t deserve for things like that.

People who surrounded Sherlock, surrounded also Mycroft. And they were really good at hiding elephant under blanket, nearly as good as Mycroft.

“I am not your maid, Sherlock.” Mrs Hudson said, but she was always feeding her boys.

“I am not gay.” John said and went to date some boring woman just to go back when Sherlock texted him.

“Not my division.” Greg said but then he did not his paperwork, because he didn’t want to leave nearly finished case.

“Of course you are so different from us, small people, Mycroft.” Sherlock was ironic. “My diet is good. I know nothing about those chocolate bars I ate last night.”

Sherlock was talented actor and he could talk like Mycroft, without a problem. Anderson looked at them, Donavan stopped writing and Greg stopped eating his sandwich. Mycroft felt she was red on her face. John tugged Sherlock’s sleeve, younger Holmes rolled his eyes, but he said nothing more.

////////////////

So Sherlock, John and Mrs Hudson created something like family, very unusual and strange but still family. Good, because Sherlock caused too many problems with her work. Politicians, Ministers and other didn’t make problems, Mycroft made too much things for them, but better not tested their patience.

Mycroft was quite happy, she showed her society that she also had family problems and she needed time to solve them. Usually it looked like she didn’t need holidays. Workaholic, iceberg, player. It wasn’t good to be seen in only one spectrum. A little difference, a little family problems were good. Unpredictable. Queen was more thankful than ever and gave Mycroft keys to her residence in Brighton. Minister of Finance was also grateful, but his present was in bank, there was no much sense to keep gold Buddha sculpture in an empty mansion. 

People was funny when it came to family problems. They became more elastic, less professional,. Mycroft used it wisely. 

“I am happy I could help.” Sherlock told reading newspaper. “It is always good to help older sister to take over the world.”

Sherlock liked eating breakfasts with John and he even gained some weight. Doctor Watson sat next to Sherlock, ate his toasts and eggs and he didn’t suspect how important he was. 

“I am happy to give you gold card brother. Now when you live with normal people I suggest to buy few normal things to wear.”

Sherlock declined present, but John took it, good, because Christmas were coming and mummy wanted to see both of her children in a good shape. John understood. His relation with Mycroft started working better when John finally caught that he needed colours in his dull life. And Sherlock had all colours he needed. And he needed adventures, which maybe wasn’t very comfortable, but if he needed comfort he wouldn’t go to Afghanistan to sweat and kill in a name of American petrol. 

So Sherlock was managed she could work and work and work. Anthea said she should take free weekend.

“In all respect, but you will kill yourself. You are never at home, you live on coffee and cookies and you sleep on couch in your office.”

She worked with Anthea for eight years. And if she who never left her blackberry told Mycroft she needed a break that was probably truth. 

So she stood up from her desk and looked at big mirror. She was tired, her face unhealthy grey, eyes black rimmed. One moment, she saw something like that before…

“You are of course right, Anthea. Maybe I should rest for few days. I will go to Brighton to Queen’s residence.” She nodded solemnly. “But world will not rest with me. So you will take care of my projects, if something will be happening do not hesitate and phone me immediately.”

“Of course.” Anthea said smiling.

They were using each other names for few years. From a moment when Anthea took mummy who was on some kind of pills out of Holmes manor and drew her to rehab. Mycroft thought that Anthea was a miracle. And always had that small crush on her that you had on your older brothers’ friends that were out of your reach. Not that Mycroft had an older brother or knew that, of course. Anthea had fourteen IDs and twice than that passports. And when she was in charge of Mycrofts’ projects the third world war had to start to make her call the older Holmes.

And Christmas were coming. She stopped sleeping, and her stopping eating was in progress. Depression was coming, was closer and closer.

“Will you pay attention for Sherlock for me? MH”  
“Are you trying to bribe me again? GL”  
“Holidays, I will be very grateful. MH”  
“OK, have fun. GL”

For a moment she thought she should write to Greg that there was no need of writing his name in every text, she had his number in speed dilating, together with mummy, queen, prime minister, Anthea, Sherlock and doctor Watson. He didn’t have to do that, but she did that too. It probably meant something, but she didn’t want to solve it right now.

Crisis was coming and Mycroft needed isolation. 

It was always in the same way. She couldn’t eat and then to make something with sugar level she ate too many sweet things. Oh she had problems with sleep. Sometimes Mycroft was tired she fall asleep immediately. She woke up like she came out from black hole with strange feeling that she slept only a minute. But there was also worse nights when she couldn’t sleep at all. Too many thoughts, too many cases. Sherlock said that nervosas were normal for Holmes. 

“Buy a cat and pet it. You will relax.” Mummy said. “It obvious that having a pet is calming.”

Mycroft didn’t have time for her cactus in bedroom, so pets were impossible.

Sometimes she didn’t sleep for three days. Small naps on the couch in her office and sea of coffee. Empty spaces of her mansion, never used fireplace and bedroom cold as morgue.

It was week to Christmas, so she went to Brighton to catch her breath. She didn’t need psychologists or specialists from diet. She needed sleep and silence.

She packed some thongs, clothes, few books, laptop and Tesco’s cookies. She gave Anthea instructions about everything and she gave Mycroft ugly Christmas scarf. She only smiled and hid in in her case. 

She used her own private car. When she was leaving London small, wet snow was falling, when she was near Brighton it changed to real blizzard.

Mycroft cursed. Everything looked like from cheap horror movie. Lonely traveller, blizzard and she didn’t see anything besides white snow. She stopped the car and get out to clean the front glass. Wind was blowing, freeze bite her cheeks and ears. And she wished she didn’t hide Anthea’s scarf. 

Murmuring invectives she tried to clean the car. But snow was still falling, harder and harder and it was darker. Why she stooped in the middle in nowhere, no houses, no shops.

She get to the car, cold and angry. She found blanket, so it was not so bad. She tried to start the engine. 

And it didn’t make a sound.

Mycroft should stay in the car, drank tea from thermos and called someone. She should make sure she was warm, calm and logical, but Mycroft was tired of being logical. And she get out from car one more time in funny uncoordinated movement, she didn’t care of her unbuttoned coat and lack of gloves. She started screaming and kicking her car. It was enough for her. It was enough of caring for everyone, of doing everything alone. She didn’t want winter and Christmas and family who was only waiting for her mistakes.

“Shit, fuck, damn it!”

She felt pain after a while. Right knee. From her fight with a car, the machine won. She was lying on the snow breathing deeply. She turned on her back. She felt cold, she shouldn’t stay here, she should go to the car… but somehow she didn’t feel like it.

Her first number in speed dilating was Greg. Mycroft pressed the button and with empty head she listened to the signal

“Yes?” She heard Greg’s voice, tired and raspy.

“It is Mycroft. Can you come for me? I am lying on the ground in snow, something like a mile from Brighton. I twisted knee, my car broke and my scarf is hidden in a case. Don’t tell Sherlock.”

For a long moment the line was silent. Mycroft stared at violet – grey sky above her and thought that Greg would hung up. Damn it, she would hang up if some cretin called her like that.

“Your car is broken, Mycroft?” Greg asked slowly.

“My knee is broken. Right knee.” She gave him an enigmatic reply and she felt an urge to laugh. Snowflakes landed on her smiling lips.

“All right, go to the car, do not turn of you mobile. I will be there soon.” Greg said and hung up.

Mycroft was still smiling when she sat on the ground. It was cold. So she tried to get up. Knee was one big painful piece of meat.

She sat in the car and screamed from pain when she had to bend her knee. For a moment world was spinning. She had to breathe, Greg would be here soon. Greg wouldn’t leave her, to whom he would send all of these texts about weather if she died here?

The car was still broken, but she couldn’t check what was wrong, but Greg would help. Maybe someone was taking care of Mycroft existence. Someone who was not Mycroft.


	2. The vestibule of hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was thinking who could play Mycroft Holmes if he was a woman. And in my mind she looks like Tilda Swinton mixed with Cynthia Nixon.

She completely lost track of time. She didn’t know, how long she was just sitting there, all of her weight on a steering wheel, she felt like a ragdoll. And it was cold as hell. Slowly, carefully she pulled out the nasty scarf from Anthea and she wrapped it around her neck. Maybe it was disgusting but also extremely warm. In her mind, Mycroft promised to buy Anthea the most expensive present she could find. She drank the last sip of nearly cold tea from thermos, stuck her nose in the scarf and there was no more strength, suddenly she was completely exhausted. Snow was falling, she didn’t know how long she was there.

Mycroft stared at fields covered in snow and she had impression that she was completely alone in the world. There was something comforting but also frightening about that.

Suddenly she heard her own mobile. With barely opened eyelids, she tried to focus on and picked up. Greg’s voice was quiet and concrete.

“Mycroft, don’t make sudden movements and pretend it is just normal conversation. You are observed, your phone calls were tracked. Your broken car is not an accident. You are under attack. We don’t know who they are, but they don’t serve the Queen.”  
“Great.” Mycroft muttered, rubbing hand over the edge of her nose and jaw. “If you are joking, I swear, I will rise your taxes.”  
“Even more then know?” Greg asked with humour, but in his voice was tension. “I will explain details later, now, listen. In fifteen minutes three cars will arrive to capture you. How are you feeling? Can you walk?”  
“I can try.” She replied carefully. “I will go with them. Not my first kidnapping and I was always politely transported to my house.”  
“You are a pope or something?”  
“No, I have undeniable charm.”  
“Mycroft, it is not a joke.” Lestrade’s voice was serious. So, why were you kidding. Mycroft thought.   
“Sherlock discovered the ambush, which should looked like an accident. Kidnappers didn’t know my number, so you were quite lucky, you phoned me. We are trying to find who gave them money… some kind of terrorists, but we still are not sure. But they are experts, I don’t think you will talk yourself out this time. You are alone and you had to run away. Don’t use your official mobile any more, Sherlock said you always have more than one mobile with you, he also said he will track it.”

Mycroft put her hand on the frozen glass and for a moment she just felt cold.

“Find me, before I freeze to death.”

“We will, don’t worry. We will find you before you go to the next road. Head south and hurry.”

Mycroft hung up and sat motionless for a moment, staring at the wall of snow surrounding her from all sides. She gathered herself and grabbed door handle. After all long time ago she had MI6 training and she did her stupid jogging in the gym. She knew how to use force. But she didn’t know if her knee would handle it.

She got out and almost immediately felt cold and strong wind. She buttoned her coat and improved scarf. She checked her backup mobile and started her pathetic escape. First few shaky steps proved that knee was twisted and it was pretty serious. She would worry about it later now it was time to run.

She was Mycroft Holmes and no knee or blizzard would interrupt her from saving her life. Maybe she wasn’t long distance runner but she was stubborn. She went cursing quietly. She headed south through grey – white landscape which looked like from picture. Subtle but sharp. Usually she liked nature from her car or in gardens and she wasn’t a fun of extreme sports. In fact she wasn’t a fun of any sports. In her mind the elite of the country should sit behind desks, eat low – fat foods, attend massages and take pills that lower cholesterol. 

Sherlock who was always slimmer, more athletic and flexible usually made fun of his slower sister. After this action he would probably never stop teasing.

Three cars appeared on the horizon. Mycroft was limping through the field. When she was in a small grove there also appeared two small snowplows and one jeep. They had to be desperate to send so many vehicles after one person. Mycroft clenched her teeth and hobbled stubbornly forward, ignoring the knee. The pain was muted by cold but it was still there and it was ready to immobilize her. She had to be careful. Field was full of lumps of ice, snow and frozen mud. 

They were professional. Her protection system didn’t notice. They chose right place and moment.

Four dressed in black men moved towards her. She couldn’t allow herself to panic and accelerate pace or run. If something happened and she land on the ground, she would lose all of the advantages and they would just caught her. If Greg’s team really was waiting on the next road she still had a chance. So she tried not to look back only carefully put steps and just went straight ahead. 

Now it was visible what Greg had on his mind. Her kidnapers in spe were fast, moved like professional killers. They didn’t shoot, didn’t want to waste bullets in such a weather and it wasn’t really necessary. 

It bothered her a little. She was kidnapped before but most of those events were stupid mistakes made by haunted politicians who didn’t do their homework or some idiots who counted for easy money. Mycroft was always released after short conversation. She just showed them all of their mistakes and suggested them to free her before big consequences, which included very angry Anthea. But now near Brighton in nowhere in snow with trained killers there was no time for her eloquence. So she was marching. Painfully slowly. Snow was everywhere reducing her ability to see where she was and where her chase was.

Suddenly she felt explosion behind her back. She didn’t turn to see what was that. She covered her head in her hands and quickened the pace. Someone was throwing grenades, so they wanted to immobilize her efficiently. After second explosion she made mistake and started running.

Something shifted in her knee. She screamed and fell. The pain was sharp, leaving her sweaty despite the cold, nearly breathless and powerless. When she opened her eyes, she was lying with face in the mud panting and puffing loudly. Everything black and white, snow and cold attacking her from all sides. It was like in a bad dream. Mycroft closed her eyes and waited. And then someone grabbed her by her arm and jerked, forcing her to lift her head.

She couldn’t see Greg’s face, she couldn’t collect her thoughts. Brown eyes, grey hair and strong hands. For a long moment world was just roaring mess full of needles of pain. When she started thinking again she discovered that Lestrade run and she was dangling limply, slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. She felt rough material of his jacket and terrible fake fur. She tried not to moan from pain. Her knee bounced in the rhythm of Lestrades’ steps, something inside painfully moved.

“Greg… slo…slower…”  
“Not an option.”

For a moment she had to passed out, because next thing she remembered was Greg’s car and police cordon. Everything was spinning and was drown in snow. She was nearly sure she saw Sherlock’s coat and John’s hair. Mycroft was exhausted, her face still in fur of Greg’s coat.

Greg had to see her discomfort because he helped her get into the car and slammed the door behind her then faced Sherlock, who suddenly materialized in front of the car. Mycroft was staring blankly at Lestrade , her brother and doctor Watson. Buzzing in her head, leg shook violently, probably nerves. Greg was saying something fast and the longer he talked the more Sherlock was upset. The interpretation was simple. Even now, when Mycroft was in such a condition Sherlock wanted to know the details from her. Lestrade and John were strictly against that. After few minutes John just pulled Sherlock away.

Mycroft reached to her pocket and discovered that her mobile despite water, snow, mud and shocks was still not broken. She texted Anthea and half a minute later she had texted back. Mycroft turned mobile off, dropped it on the car’s floor and took a deep breath. Something was wrong with her ribs.

She closed her eyes and opened them when Greg get to the car and slammed door with too much force.

“We are going to hospital.”  
“We are going to Queen residence, but autumn not summer.” Mycroft informed Greg, trying to breath shallowly so the pain in her ribs was bearable. “Go to E 130 then west. Later A 45, there will be our escort .”  
“Where is this residence?”  
“I can’t tell you.”  
“Mycroft, you need to go to hospital. You look awful, your knee bents in a way that is impossible anatomically and your temple is bleeding.”

Mycroft slowly touched her temple.

“Sherlock wanted to take you to the hospital immediately.”  
“Sherlock?”  
“Okay, it was John.” Greg smiled wryly. “Sherlock wanted to inquire about details of the attack. I told him to fuck off and that I am taking you to the hospital.”  
“You are taking me to the residence. It is very nice that you care, but everything has been arranged. My personal physician will be there waiting for me.”

She run out of breath. The pain was now paralyzing her. Ribs and knee, she just focused on breathing. Greg started the engine and started their travel.

“I would like you to go to the hospital first, Mycroft. Then we can go where you want.”

Mycroft wanted to protest, but in this moment Greg’s mobile started ringing. Greg picked up, listened for few minutes and hung up without saying good bye. Anthea, terrorists or Sherlock?

“That your Anthea can be extremely convincing.” Greg said with a small smile and changed the road to head west.

Mycroft also smiled but it had to look pathetic.

“Yes… Anthea… it is very hard to negotiate with her… she is very eloquent.”  
“Yeah, so it was eloquence…? She told me that if I did not bring you to where she wants in one hour, she would personally cut my balls off and pinned them back using office stapler and then she would post it on John’s blog.”  
“As I said, eloquent.”  
“Extremely, stop talking Mycroft, I can see that you have something with your ribs or maybe lungs. So stop making them hurt more.”

Greg refused to report her about terrorists and entire event, but she was too tired to be angry. She leaned her head against window and closed her eyes. The nightmare was over, everything was returning to normal. She would have to make sure that situation like that would not happen again. And she had to track those terrorists and crushed them for demonstration. You didn’t play games with Mycroft Holmes, not that kind of games. 

Greg cursed, turned something with a bang and then melodic rock was heard from old car radio. Mycroft listened absently. She didn’t know what was it, she didn’t listen that kind of music, but it was not so bad. She didn’t protest when Greg draped a blanket around her and then also his jacket with fake fur on the hood.

When they arrived in the meeting place with Anthea and her bodyguards, Mycroft was only half conscious. She felt like she was in water, slow and weightless, strange thoughts swirled in her head, enigmatic and funny. Greg was bending over her, improving his jacket and blanket around her and then taking her out into open, dark, cold space. Fast, hushed words. Anthea’s pale face surrounded by a thick scarf and her blackberry that was still ringing. Dark blue, clear sky and frost which bit her ears, cheeks and nose.

“If you could take her to your place Greg, I will take care of the rest. Sorry for all trouble.:

//////

She woke up in a strange room too weak to think about it. Her eyelids dropped before she called someone. It was probably safe. She remembered that Greg brought her to Anthea. The rest was blurred. 

The room, in which she was lying was small, modestly furnished but had wonderful, tall windows, now covered with heavy purple curtains. On the shelf stood books and photos. She couldn’t focus enough to look at them. She moved under a cover, it was nice and warm. There were bandages on her head and chest. Also she had stiches on her temple. She pulled covers up and stared at her feet.

Mycroft was afraid to move her right knee, so she just let it be. She felt that she could sleep here for the whole winter. She was falling asleep when door was opened and Greg showed up. Grey tracksuit pants, white t-shirt and a mug with coffee in left hand.

“You are awake. Great, I will call your doctor.”  
“What?”  
“Anthea gave me doctors Bruchner’s number. He examined you, bandaged and then we took you here, to my house. Anthea found out that autumn residence was also under attack. They really knew what they were doing. So we had to improvise and took you somewhere you are not usually… friends, family…”

Mycroft didn’t have friends, she had co-workers and it was better not to mix these two things.

Greg put his mug on the small table, went to bed and sat on it. Mycroft said nothing, asked for nothing, but Lestrade guessed what he should do. He was surpassingly gentle when he was helping Mycroft to sit up and he handed her water in a cup.

“You can’t drink water from a cup.” Mycroft pointed out in hoarse voice.  
“My house, my rules.” Greg said smiling.

For a moment they just stared at each other.

“I usually do not stay in private houses of police officers…” She began and fell back on the pillow. Such a small effort and she panted as after mountain climbing.  
“Mycroft, shut up. I could help so I did it. Anyway, Anthea wanted to take you to herself, but her house was also under observation.”  
“Sherlock?”  
“Sherlock discovered entire ambush was arranged by Moriarty. And I have to add, he was very worried about you.” Another smile. “He was here until John took him to Baker Street.”  
“I don’t believe.”  
“Well, I didn’t believe too, but Sherlock was afraid that he would lose… someone from his people who make sure he won’t go crazy…”

Greg was saying something more, but Mycroft was already falling asleep. Someone improved her covers and wrapped one more blanket around her. She fall asleep without knowing when and how.

////////////

Doctor Bruchner announced concussion, three ribs cracked and torn meniscus. The last was the worst, because despite x-ray and non-invasive tests, no one knew how deep was the damage. One thing was certain, for few weeks she had to stop her gym and just resting.

“You have to rest, there is no another way.” Doctor Bruchner said with polite smile. He was trusted doctor of Holmes family. Gentleman in his sixties. “If you don’t listen and I can see you are planning that, you will end with operation and a plaster. You can’t ignore this one Mycroft, you are not getting any younger and knee injuries are awful, they like coming back.”

Mycroft agreed with her doctor and tried to stop herself from making plans of escape from the house arrest. She could be sitting in her office, it was safe for knees and a short travel in limousine couldn’t cause too many side effects. But Mycroft discovered how Moriarty played and she knew that another escape in the middle of nowhere or in London was absolutely impossible right now.

So she stuck in safe place that appeared to be Greg’s house.

Mycroft knew Moriarty for two years. She observed Jim and his criminal consultation and money transfers. People like that sometimes appeared in the international area and you couldn’t do much about them. Intelligent and crazy, minds outside of the system, liberated from rules. You could torture and killed them, but there was always risk. This kind of people when they wanted to blow up the parliament they just did that, without blinking. And they planned ahead. 

“Thank you for your hospitality, Greg, but I can’t stay here. I can’t expose you and your family…”

Greg still in tracksuit, sat down on the chair next to bed and pulled his legs. He looked tired, but he was still awake. Mycroft admired him for that.

“It is fine, Mycroft, you can stay.” Greg said firmly, measuring Mycroft with calm eyes.  
“I don’t want to disturb… Your wife…” Mycroft began awkwardly, her eloquence suffered, because of drugs. Greg interrupted her with a sigh.  
“My wife gave me divorce papers two days ago. Different characters or something. Doesn’t matter. She moved to her lover and I stayed here. I will take care of all of it after holidays.”

Greg stared gloomily at the window. Mycroft said in low, gentle voice.

“I am sorry.”

Greg laughed in a choked voice.

“And I am not sorry. I was afraid I would be, but I am not. I just don’t want to talk about it.”  
“It is understandable.” Mycroft nodded and sank deeper under the covers. “But maybe you prefer to be alone right now, not with wounded politician in your guest bedroom.”  
“I was already alone for so long that I forgot how to be with someone.” Greg said bitterly. “You can stay, Anthea agreed, arranged everything, guards, security, cameras…”  
“It can’t be comfortable.”  
“I don’t mind. It is okay, I will have company. I hate Christmas.”

He was lonely and selfish in his loneliness and he spoke honestly. It was fascinating. Greg Lestrade, loyal, abandoned workaholic who with angelic patience worked with Sherlock and lived in terrible, probably chose by treacherous wife, house.

“I was trying to convince myself that there is still something to fix. But I am tired of this. They say old dogs do not learn new tricks. I never learned the old not mention about new. Relationships are not for me. Sorry, you are probably not interested in this.”

Mycroft listened to Greg, searching for hidden interests of Anthea, Sherlock and British government. But she didn’t find anything. Greg really didn’t want to stay alone. It was his remedy for divorce hangover and loneliness during Christmas. So of course Greg had his interest, he didn’t want to be alone. Mycroft understood that and who would be looking for her, here? In small house on the outskirts of London, in the heart of average middle class street.

“I will stay here if it is really okay.” It was strange to talk without irony. It wasn’t just politeness, but truth. Lestrade made favour and Mycroft used it. It was amazing, surprising and fascinating.

Greg sighed one more time.

“As I said, no problem, Mycroft.”  
“Thank you, Greg, for the action at Brighton too, Sherlock would do so much noise if he did that alone. Also I will return the favour.”  
“That sounded like a threat.” Greg smiled grimly, Mycroft rolled her eyes and shook her head.  
“Can a woman with broken knee, stiches on her head and fractured ribs be dangerous?”  
“Yes, if she is you.” Greg smiled more pleasant, more sincere. Light in his eyes faded as soon as it appeared. Mycroft promised herself that ex Mrs Lestrade would be banned from London. Reasons invalided, money not important. Holmes sank into the pillow, barely keeping her eyes opened.

“As much as I like being flattered… but now I feel like I need more sleep. Anthea knows what I need, she will organize everything.”

Greg glared at her and his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Just don’t try to conquer the world with computer from my kitchen.”  
“Greg, please, to conquer the world I need only mobile with Bluetooth.

/////

And the strangest week in Mycroft’s life began. She didn’t like surprises and always avoided them when she could. But she couldn’t avoid living in small house with uncooperative boiler and divorce in spe.

For the first day Greg avoided Mycroft, apparently instructed by Anthea to not interfere with recovery process. She played with internet, sent all mails, left a comment on Sherlock’s blog, then dozed off, ate something boring. She was bored. It was… god… that Sherlock felt? It was so new feeling. Boredom. Being locked in this simple bedroom with damaged knee, and laptop. She didn’t remember boredom. Always was something to do. Even during lunches or flying. 

After an hour of staring at the laptop screen she came to conclusion that it was longing. For her rituals, breakfasts and lonely evenings. She couldn’t do this and the second human being was sitting two walls away, in the kitchen doing dinner, listening to rock music. Greg seemed to be fun of it. Mycroft wrote down in her phone a remainder to buy him tickets for some good concert.

“May I join you?” She asked. Earlier she gathered herself, mentally shouted at her hesitancy and dragged herself into the kitchen. She had to limp amazingly beautiful, because Greg stared at her like a deer on the cars’ lights and wordlessly offered her a chair.

Mycroft didn’t even try to pretend that this short journey didn’t tire her. She sat down and focused on her breath. The knee didn’t hurt when she didn’t move it. It was pretty hard not to move it. Even lying could cause pain not to mention about walking.

Greg cleared his throat and made Mycroft a cup of hot chocolate. It was snowing again, but not that hard like in Brighton.

“Thank you.” Mycroft said and tried chocolate. It was sweet and tasted a little of cardamom.  
“Real milk, you are a man of tradition.”

Lestrade frowned and sat down next to Mycroft.

“Chocolate with powder milk is not a chocolate. I am old-schooled. So, how are you? You probably drank better things and lived in better places.”  
“Maybe, but now I am sitting in your kitchen, sleeping in your bed and drinking your version of chocolate. It is called cognitive attitude.”  
“It is called an execution.” Greg innocently cut in. “Anthea will tear my head off when she finds out that you drink chocolate, if you are somewhere near diabetes.”

Mycroft laughed and but later she felt ashamed of that. Greg noticed but didn’t say a thing, trying to be busy and making sandwiches with cheese and tomatoes.

/////

Sometimes she was happy she didn’t have to sit in her empty mansion and waited in the nerves for next oh so great family Christmas. Sometimes she wished she moved out with the first opportunity and just went to some hotel in Croatia to get better after her winter adventure. But because of stupid sentiments, she stayed with a man with whom she texted about weather and with whom she cleaned after Sherlock. It would not end well.

First few days she slept, so she didn’t feel the strangeness of the situation. She was on drugs, slowed and sluggish. She went to bathroom, drank water, ate her vegetable salad and returned, wrapped herself in blankets and slept. It was snowing, day, night it didn’t really matter. She didn’t respond for mails, Anthea should take care of that and she probably did that, because no one bothered Mycroft. Queen called and wished health. Sherlock also called declaring that mummy contacted with him and that she would not get away from Christmas dinner so easily. No politicians, no ambassadors, no ministers. Miracle. 

The problem began when she stopped sleeping for ninety percent of the day. Mycroft was accustomed to solitude and with Greg she was never alone. Lestrade walked around the house, stairs creaked, he was doing something on the driveway, whistling in the bathroom, and generally did whatever people did in their own houses.

It was surprising for her how hard was living with someone. To remember about boiler each time she took shower, to meet someone in the way to bathroom, to search for something in kitchen that was not yours. 

Mycroft discovered it was easier when she sat with Greg in the kitchen and worked. Recognized and accepted person in her space was much more bearable. She discovered that on the third day, when she emerged from her bedroom in robe and slippers with fluffy bears – Anthea’s questionable joke. Mycroft with laptop appeared in the kitchen. She said something about breakfast and tea. Lestrade had spread papers over the table. He glared at her, but his eyes were laughing.

“Ay, Ay, grey eminence in bear slippers.”

Mycroft decided that for slippers and ugly scarf she would give Anthea only diamond necklace, not the whole set which also contained a bracelet and earrings.

Greg cleaned the table and Mycroft put down her laptop and discovered that Greg knew nothing about breakfasts. Because how could you work when you drank only coffee and ate cornflakes and strawberry yogurt that had so much sugar as a good chocolate. When Mycroft saw that pathetic excuse for a breakfast that Lestrade was going to eat she threw it into the trash.

“What are you doing?” Lestrade wanted to know but Mycroft raised an eyebrow and smiled.  
“Breakfast.”

She took milk, ham and cheese from fridge, made toasts. When she started doing scrambled eggs and tea with milk she understood how she missed her morning ritual. Greg didn’t argue. He sat politely at the table and stared at Mycroft like she was the strangest think he had ever seen.

“Are you all right?” Mycroft asked when she put toasts on the plates.  
“Yeah.” Greg gasped.

They ate and talked about everything and nothing. The radio played quietly some rock ballades and Mycroft thought that she could get used to it. Maybe not to the boiler, but to this, yes. When Greg finished washing plates he announced that he had work to do.

“Me too.” Mycroft said.

So they sat with laptops and started working. When kettle whistled Greg made tea, when he took honey he joked that it was good for bears. He was in good mood. It meant that divorce case didn’t came to his mind for true.

She thought it would be weird and uncomfortable, but it was quite tolerable. They worked quite efficiently. After three hours Mycroft decided it was enough, her knee hurt and she was tired. Greg calmly and firmly took her by the elbow and maneuvered out of the kitchen straight to the bedroom. Mycroft felt asleep almost immediately, somewhere between advantages and disadvantages of having a flatmate. 

So they created ritual. Greg took few days off to bury himself in paperwork before Christmas. Before she woke up he was jogging thorough the snowy streets of London. He returned, took hot shower and then they ate. Then worked, laptops, files, statistics, all spread on the table. 

“I despise the bourgeois belief that you work only twelve hours per day.” Greg announced. “And these free holidays…”  
“Bourgeois paradigm is five, six hour per day.” Mycroft improved with blissful smile leaning over her laptop and writing email to some German Minister. “Twelve hours is a higher layer of the middle class. Careful, because you will climb to higher class.”  
“And you as usual make everything about money, Mycroft.” Greg snorted loudly and stirred his tea.  
“Absolutely not. For me being in any class is a state of a mind. I know professors and officials who are mentally less than average worker. I also know workers who are mentally absolutely above their class.”  
“I am nearly afraid to ask, in which class do you see yourself?”  
“In the highest.” She simply replied. “I created my own job and no one apart me can do that. Only I have useful skills for my position. Looking at hours, I work all the time. Dividing time for leisure and work seems to be funny from my positions. I see that people thinking in that way not achieve much.”  
“Oh, so in what class I am?” Greg asked like it didn’t mattered, but it did, she could see that in those brown eyes. So there were possibilities. A lie would be flattery, but Lestrade would recognize it immediately. The truth would be unpleasant, but Lestrade would see who Mycroft was. Hard bastard who looked at people and knew all their plans before they realized they had any. In fact older Holmes was far worse the younger one. She knew, understood and experienced emotions and used them knowing the cost of the game.

Greg was still waiting for her answer. She cleared her throat.

“You are close to my class, but you are near-sighted. You like to keep your little fantasies in which you believed when you were young and you can’t leave them. I understand fantasies as a marriage, house with white fence, pretending to have free time and private life and so on.”

Greg looked at her with wide eyes and then laughed. Loud and honestly. Mycroft couldn’t turn away from the sight, it was nice, surprisingly warm laughter.

“Remind me that I shouldn’t ever ask for your opinion on private subjects, Holmes.”  
“I will remember that. Now if I could ask you to make me a sandwich.”

Anthea supplied kitchen like Mycroft was here to stay for a year not couple of weeks. So Lestrade was feeding her and making sure it was good for her health. He didn’t like sweets, only chocolate, so Mycroft didn’t find any jam or sugar.

“I also don’t have any chocolate bars or cake.” Greg said reading his files.  
“Anthea should buy my cookies from Tesco, Mycroft complained theatrically and took a sip of a chocolate. “She knows I like them, but she didn’t add them to her shopping list.”   
“You talk as Anthea is your wife and she is obliged to feed you cookies.” Greg flashed a smile. “She is your secretary. Secretaries do not buy their bosses cookies or arrange anti – terrorists brigade when one is needed.”  
“Anthea is my personal assistant not secretary.” Mycroft emphasised, watching with fascination line of Greg’s neck. “I trust her unconditionally, because she is worth it. For the record we are not together. Anthea is in a happy relationship with employee of one of a shop store.”  
“Wow.”  
“Yes, opposites attract.” Mycroft smiles and stared shamelessly at Greg’s neck. “Besides he is a good man, even if he earns eighteen times less than Anthea.”  
“I can always buy them for you. The cookies I mean. You don’t have to wait for Anthea.” Greg muttered. “Well, unless you want to …?”

Greg’s voice was soothing and subtly, but also it established movement, reaction. Mycroft did not fully understand non-verbal message so she didn’t answer for unspoken question.

Maybe she like waiting. With everything.

////////////////////////////

Mycroft was sure that Sherlock wouldn’t stop teasing her. The younger Holmes would be talking and talking about her inadvertently, recklessness, lack of forethought and general stupidity. No matter that it was one of the most dangerous terrorist group, no matter that she didn’t sleep for three days and her winter depression was coming. Mycroft allowed herself to be weak. And someone saw that and used. Sherlock would show superiority now, prove that Mycroft had her weaknesses and was only human being.

Few days before Christmas John and Sherlock visited Mycroft and Greg. Sherlock was stiff, formal and bored. John was smiling and wearing Christmas jumper. 

“Mycroft, you of course will be attending our family Christmas?” Sherlock asked and sat down in kitchen. “Knee injury can’t be that serious to leave me alone at the mercy of mummy.”  
“Knee injury, concussion, ribs….” John said calmly and looked at Sherlock. “Sherlock stop…”

“I am not going to stop, John.” Sherlock hissed. “Without Mycroft and her slimy ways to survive in a group mummy will make permanent damage to the magnificent machine that is my mind.”

“Did I understand correct? You need Mycroft to defend you against your own mother? Greg asked amused. Mycroft tried not to smile and John was laughing hard

Sherlock folded his arms on his chest and made a face like teenager who didn’t like that his parents made his birthday party. 

“As usual, you understood something but not everything detective inspector. You should focus on your divorce, it seems that your wife is with red hair barista from cafe near the Yard.”

Greg shrugged and started doing snacks. His hands trembled. John sighed. And Mycroft… Mycroft felt a weave of fiery rage. It wasn’t clear why she reacted so violently to Sherlock’s taunt. But one was sure, Sherlock was going to spend Christmas with their family without Mycroft. Even if she had to send mummy certificate that she was dying.

It had to be visible on her face, because her brother looked at her with growing concern.

“What?”

So Mycroft in short words explained Sherlock that she wasn’t feeling very good and she would spend Christmas with Greg. Mummy would understand. Mummy always understood when her older, more serious child who paid for her psychotherapy and shelters once in thirty years would not appear on Christmas dinner. Sherlock didn’t say a word. John handed him a cake and padded his shoulder in a comforting gesture. Mycroft wondered how close they were.

The rest of evening Greg and John were chatting about work, mutual friends and football matches. Holmes siblings didn’t participate in that conversation just watched in silence. After two hours John grabbed Sherlock, before they said goodbye, John and Greg talked about going to pub together. And Mycroft felt strange like Greg had more friends than her.

Mycroft helped Greg with cleaning the table and allowed him to pointless small talk. Something about matches and crime in the stadiums. When she finished wiping plates, she apologized and went to the bedroom. Greg looked like he wanted to ask what was going on, but Mycroft was faster. Before Lestrade gathered in himself she was already safe in the bedroom.

/////////

Mycroft planned her move out very carefully. She spread it for few days so Greg wouldn’t catch she was angry. She was aware how childish her anger was, Lestrade had his own life, friends and his silly pleasures and he didn’t have to want to share them with Mycroft. After all the only thing that they were doing together was texting. Since last week they also ate breakfasts and worked on one kitchen table. On situation like these you couldn’t build anything. And Mycroft wasn’t sure if she wanted to build anything at all. She didn’t wanted to analyse that. The irrational anger was humiliating enough.

Her return to her mansion was prepared behind Lestrade’s back, because he would like to try to stop her. She didn’t want to be stopped. She wanted to go back to her status quo, solitude and get rid of bizarre impractical thoughts. Why someone like her wanted to be friends with a boring, predictable detective inspector.

Sherlock befriended Watson, but her brother in some cases was like eight years old in a body of an adult man, so he wasn’t good example.

Anthea took care of everything. Prepared mansion, paid Sherlock’s mandate for driving a car which wasn’t his. Also she organized guards and more cameras.

Mycroft called mummy, told her, she wasn’t coming for Christmas. Mummy as always was hysterical. She patiently listened her pleas, tears and everything that should make her feel guilty. As always Mycroft wondered why she even bother. Her family was sick and she was angry at herself for caring for them so much. When mummy stopped her scene, Mycroft said dryly that she had to end this conversation, because she had control visit about her knee. Mummy didn’t even ask about her health. Not that Mycroft expected it. 

When she told Lestrade she was leaving he took it calmly. He smiled, wished her all the best and thanked for a nice time. Mycroft offered him financial compensation. Greg refused. So she jokingly suggested that she could eliminate his ex wife. Greg laughed hollowly and called Mycroft a madwoman. Mycroft suddenly felt that something was wrong and she shouldn’t leave Greg, but what else she could do? She wasn’t family, probably not even a friend. 

No, Greg would handle it. Like Mycroft. Because of everything they were more prone to sentimental nonsense. That’s all. 

//////////////

The mansion was uncomfortably silent. Never before she felt like it bother her. No creaking stairs, no whistling in a bathroom and no humming kettle, She had to get used it one more time. Anthea made some tea.

“You will be alone for Christmas? If you want you can come to us. Me and Henry. We won’t say anything to Sherlock and mummy.”  
“Thank you, but it’s not necessary.” Mycroft refused with a smile. “I have so many things to do.”

Anthea made a face, folded her arms and shook her head.

“Stop playing, I am not going to believe in any of your excuses, Mycroft, seriously come to us.”  
“You bought cookies?”

End of conversation. Anthea sat on the chair in front of Mycroft.

“Of course, cookies and honey. The only sweets in this house and it will be better for you if it stays that way. I found your Nutella.”  
“You are irreplaceable.”  
“I know, but Mycroft.” Anthea put her palm on Mycroft shoulder. “Promise me, if you change your mind you will come to us.”  
“Of course.” Mycroft lied smoothly and Anthea rolled her eyes.   
“You are impossible. Okay, I have to go. Merry Christmas.”  
“And a happy new year.” Mycroft ended with dignity. When they stood up, she handed Anthea a decorative jewellery box. With necklace, earrings and bracelets. Diamonds didn’t look good when they weren’t in set.  
“And I have only socks for you.” Anthea put her present on the table. “Henry says that socks are always needed.”

The rest of the evening Mycroft observed fire. Anthea put into fireplace some juniper tree so whole mansion smelled like a forest.   
She wasn’t hungry, so she didn’t eat dinner not even her cookies. Mycroft took shower, get dressed in pajamas and went to her bedroom. Funny how cold and uncomfortable it seemed. Too large, far too large and so cold.

She fall asleep with a hot water bottle on her kidneys and another one below her knee. She dreamed about jacket with fake fur in which she hid her face and a huge snowstorm which made all world disappeared.

///

Mycroft spent Christmas Eve morning eating breakfast in her kitchen. Oh and she made hot chocolate trying not to think about consequences. 

She couldn’t relax in quiet residence. So she turned on the kitchen stereo set and listened to news from the world. Nothing new, nothing great. World was hiding every dirt under Christmas, sparkling carpet, which forced people to buy unnecessary things. But people needed this. Once a year they needed close their eyes and didn’t see wars, increasing taxes and political problems. Once a year they wanted to be cheerful even if it was only a mirage, a patchwork of Christian traditions mixed with commercial gibberish. 

Her late father always said, the people who screamed, fought for the rights and clamoured were in fact just cattle. Only ones who get rid of illusions and who could see through the illusions would win. Marriages, divorces, Christmas dinners, Christmas trees, carols in every store, misguided Christmas gifts. All of it was not important. Because what you could buy someone who had everything?

Anthea’s Henry claimed that socks. Mycroft in that particular case had to agree.

All day she was working. No stupid ideas. Foreign Office was happy, Spanish royal family was happy, they even invited her for New Year’s Eve. Day like every day. Who needed Christmas?

About six p.m she dressed in warm clothes and wool coat. She didn’t want to go out, but she needed more cookies. Something told her that she would eat a lot of them during her lonely holidays.

 

So she went to the limousine and her chauffer took her to the nearest Tesco. She slowly limped to the store, balancing on the icy sidewalk. Inside was far too warm and crowded. She winced, sighed, shook the snow from her collar and stood eye to eye with Greg.

Greg didn’t look good. Too pale with bloodshot eyes. Hair stuck in all directions. Mycroft looked at Greg, his muddy shoes, wet coat and four packs of cookies stuffed in plastic bag. Suddenly she understood. Lestrade in Tesco far away from his home and work. Lestrade with cookies which he didn’t even like.

“Hello, I was calling you, but it has to be something wrong with my mobile during this snow. I was walking to you.” Greg turned his face away apparently unable to bear Mycroft’s curious gaze.  
“And you have a gift. Cookies.” Mycroft diagnosed. Greg nodded. 

Here, in the crowd. In too warm place with people who was in hurry. Something important had happened. Mycroft didn’t know how to name it, but she felt she would understand this in time. Not necessarily now.

Mycroft mobile vibrated, she reached for it and read the text message.

“Anthea also gave you socks for Greg. SH”

Mycroft smiled and deleted text message.

“Come on. I am inviting you for a dinner.” She said and grabbed Greg’s sleeve. Lestrade followed her obediently.


	3. Spider’s web in the Caribbean

On Christmas Eve night Mycroft and Greg get completely drunk. They left their coats in the corridor, took snacks from the kitchen and sat down by the fire and began the slow process of annihilation the best things from Mycroft’s bar. One by one, bottle by bottle. Whiskey with ice, Ballantines then Johnny Walker Green and Black Label. They happily agreed that you couldn’t destroy such drinks with Coke so they stayed with ice and lemon.

Next they turned to Bourbons. 

“Bourbon is quite offensive name for this wonderful drink.” Mycroft murmured, opening the first bottle. Greg looked at her, eyes glassy and not concentrated.  
“I don’t think it is important right now.”

Mycroft agreed. And when Greg preferred classical Jack Daniels, she chose something sweeter and better matching the cookies – Jim Bean. Around the midnight, carpet in front of fireplace was littered with bottles, plates, biscuits and water from ice.

They were talking about something, but Mycroft didn’t remember what was that. Greg maneuvered between grumble about his bitchy soon ex wife and admire the beautiful shape of Mycroft’s shoulder. Mycroft replied in monosyllables, happy and strangely excited to have someone with whom she could get drunk and tomorrow’s Times wouldn’t write about it. Snow was falling, Christmas texts were coming and they didn’t answer them, just sat and drank. The world could wait for Mycroft Holmes. After all no one was waiting for her.

It was one of the best Christmas in her life. No stupid relatives, no treacherous cousins, no younger brother who was annoying mummy and kicking her dachshund under the table. Only honest, drunk detective inspector who brought cookies, snow outside the windows and the sea of alcohol. If every of her Christmas looked like that she wouldn’t have depression.

Around four in the morning Mycroft decided it was time to go to sleep. She gathered herself, stood up form armchair and leaned heavily on Greg, who suddenly appeared at her side.

“Mycroft…knee…”

“Thank you.” Mycroft said and looked closely at his face. His eyes were still bloodshot and he looked extremely tired. Mycroft had a desire to touch this face. And it was the first face that Mycroft watched so closely for years. Prostitutes didn’t count, neither male nor female.

Greg didn’t have problem with intimacy. His eyes were trusting and perhaps instinctively he kissed her open eye.

It was very nice and even if she tried to be offended she forget about it.

“Nice.. you..nice.. grey eminence…”  
“Fascinating, when you are drunk, you don’t … use verbs…” Mycroft pointed out with a smile when she and Greg began their complicated journey to the bedroom. 

Mycroft didn’t remember about her knee until she collapsed on the bed. She felt sharp pain and probably moaned or something, because Greg was instantly beside her helping her with shoes and trousers.

She was stripped from her shirt and wrapped in a blanket. Only in underwear. Greg patted her in drunken affection, ruffling the already dishevelled hair. Mycroft hated when someone touching her hair. Greg didn’t notice her displeasure, because he was busy with another problem. She was packed to the bed and he stood unsure what to do next.

“And me?” He asked in intimate whisper, ideal for night calls. Mycroft never talked with anyone in her bedroom, especially at night, but if she ever wanted to do that, Greg voice would be a first choice to listen. She understood him without verbs.  
“Guest bedroom, in the end of the corridor to the left, or you can stay here…

Greg didn’t wait for the end of the sentence, he sat down on the bed took of his trousers and laid down next to Mycroft. Bed was big and yet Greg’s back was touching hers. It was probably habit from martial life. Mycroft fall asleep feeling the warmness of Greg’s back and thinking if all of these meant something.

//////  
So well she didn’t sleep in ages. Nothing disturbed her, hangover, headache that would come and oddly bent knee, which was still sleeping so it didn’t hurt. Mycroft Holmes for the first time in a very long time felt rested. Relaxed in a places she didn’t even know could be tense. No yoga, no visit to Turkish bath completed with sex were better than drunken night with Greg. She would be ashamed of that, but it would be a nice memory when she would have to return for family Christmas next year. So after all it was worth it.

She didn’t allow herself to wake up. She laid motionless, wrapped in warmth and sense of security. Greg snored, his face pressed into the pillow, hair sticking out wildly in all directions. Mycroft for a moment stared at the darkness outside the window. She didn’t remember falling back to sleep. When she woke up again she was alone..

She sat down reluctantly . She felt badly digested alcohol. She remembered that Greg kissed her. Well, it was nice but it ended. Greg woke up, scared, embarrassed, thought again about bizarre Christmas situation and then fled. 

She forced herself to her feet, with slow careful steps she went to bathroom. The knee didn’t hurt but it was a chance it would start soon. Mycroft stepped into the shower all stiff and sore. She felt giant hangover coming. Head, knee, back, stomach. First day of Christmas would be all sacrificed to sleep. Maybe it was good that Greg went away, no one would be watching as Mycroft Holmes laid on the couch and slowly dying.

After a shower she felt a little better. She gulped two painkillers and dressed in fresh pajamas and robe and went down. She needed breakfast even if her body wasn’t so sure about it.

Greg looked at her from his coffee. He wore track suit which probably was Sherlock’s from time he once detoxed here. 

Greg smiled to her.

“Hello, coffee?”

Mycroft nodded, sitting down at the table with well hid amazement watching how Greg wandered through her kitchen. Lestrade despite hangover moved smoothly. He found mugs and made coffee and then he dig for some unusual products. She didn’t ask why he needed celery, tomato juice and Tabasco. But she was curious and Greg interpreted it in his own way.

“Sorry, I took clothes from your wardrobe. You probably thought I go away without saying goodbye, but no one is waiting for me…” Greg said without taking his eyes from the celery which he quickly cut. His hands didn’t tremble a bit. Mycroft was impressed. “So I thought before my departure I could do something for hangover and we could eat breakfast.”

It was obvious that he was referring to breakfasts which they ate in his house. Mycroft was pleased that she wasn’t alone with that memories.

“Greg.” Mycroft rubbed an itchy eye, hiding a smile. It was nice to have someone in usually empty kitchen. It was nice to have someone who made your coffee and drank it with you. “I am sorry, yesterday everything went very quickly and I didn’t prepare for you bedroom or clothes…”  
“You always prepare clothes for your guests?” Greg asked then threw celery into blender and poured there some tomato juice. “Noted, now I’ll mix.”

Mycroft had time to shield her ears before she was attacked by awful, poking her head like thousands needles sound. It wasn’t healthy for someone who tried to survive hangover. Fortunately it was short. Lestrade couldn’t protect his ears so he wrinkled his nose and made a face of brave warrior. Greg poured red pulp into glasses threw few cubs of ice and few droplets of Tabasco. 

“Yesterday we had too much.” Mycroft said and took a sip of tomato concoction. It tasted like spiced with hot peppers socks. Greg laughed.  
“Yeah, even if we did, it was the best Christmas in my life.” He said hoarsely.

Greg’s potion did its work, because after fifteen minutes and strong as hell coffee Mycroft offered to make breakfast. Greg turned the radio on and found some rock remixes of Christmas carols and then began answering for texts. He frowned, probably his family wished him to come back to his nearly ex wife. Mycroft glanced again and again at Greg from scrambled eggs and felt something she didn’t feel for a long time. Peace and quiet, feeling that everything would be fine. 

Snow covered a garden. Neighbour’s dog was barking. Inside, in the kitchen, Mycroft listened to rock version of Silent Night. And she thought she could get used to that. Having Greg in her private space was very tempting and Greg himself was also looking quite happy about it… But his feet were bare. So she took Anthea’s packet and pulled out two pairs of wool socks. Green with reindeers. 

“We were good children this year and we got presents.”

Greg put on the socks and looked at Mycroft.

“I thought that you buy each other tropical islands no socks.”

Mycroft who put on her socks just flexed her feet and replied Greg with calm eyes.

“Tropical islands are impractical. Moment of pleasure and lot of work later.”  
“Just like marriage.” Greg remarked and they laughed.

Greg was supposed to stay only for breakfast, but breakfast lasted about three hours and they were so tired after that they went to living room and just sat in the armchairs and watched stupid comedies. When they finished Scrooged Greg casually stood up and scanned the DVD collection. It wasn’t big, Mycroft didn’t have time for pleasures like that and generally she preferred books. She had however few DVDs, mostly from grateful directors whose movies were founded by her.

When Greg found Doctor Who his eyes lit up.

“Can we watch few episodes? Christmas ones?”

And so the afternoon turned into evening. Greg as it turned out was very fond of Doctor Who and Mycroft had moments she liked in this show, but also sometimes she was falling asleep. Greg didn’t wake her up. He just did one more tea and Mycroft was sleeping soundly, her head titled back and arms folded. She didn’t remember to feel safe enough to sleep with someone else in the same room.

So all Christmas day they spent in the armchairs . Nowhere to hurry. Stress free. Both under unspeakable agreement ignored calls from their families.

When Greg finally stood up and said that he should go Mycroft experienced two conflicting emotions. On the one hand she wanted him to stay longer, on the other hand she knew if she tried to stop him in her way – using deductions and playing on emotions, he would never come again. 

So she said goodbye as they met for an hour on a common coffee. To three a.m she worked analysing messages from global market. She had surprisingly good humour and no doubts about Greg. 

////

So, just like that, Mycroft had a friend. Perhaps friend was a strong word, but she used it anyway. Greg deserved to be more than just colleague. They met once a week, in different places, different days. 

They met, they talked and ate. She liked that. She liked watching someone next to her ate a meal with taste. Mycroft ate business lunches, She was invited to lavish dinners and parties, but there, no one ate, because it was tasty. Everything was a game. With Greg everything was so oddly normal, but not boring.

January became February. Mummy was ill and she had to be transported to sunny Italy where the best specialists could deal with her depression.

Greg and Mycroft still texted about the weather. When Mycroft didn’t receive her daily weather information she was worried.

“You are very subtle with Greg sister mine.” Sherlock once remarked during her visit in Baker Street. She texted Greg, because they were going to meet for they weekly coffee, tea or whatever they wanted. Greg didn’t reply. Mycroft was very sensitive to the lack of news from someone as scrupulous as detective inspector. But of course she didn’t want to make Greg felt any obligation toward her so she turned her distress into joke.

“Did you get heart attack after the fifth cup of coffee? MH”

“I fall asleep on my desk, we had an unexpected meeting with some asshole from ministry. Boring as hell. Take your limousine and save me from it Batman. GL”

“Excuse me, gentlemen, but I have to leave.” Mycroft said and improved her coat. 

Sherlock stared in disbelief.

“Oh no…”  
“What is going on?” John was unaware of the whole situation. He just came from a kitchen with tea and biscuits. “Mycroft doesn’t stay?”  
“Mycroft will go and will eat with Lestrade.” Sherlock said with grave voice, Mycroft grimaced.  
“One more word brother dear and I shall tell doctor Watson what is on your secret drive F in your laptop.”

Sherlock immediately closed his mouth. John just stared at Holmes siblings and shrugged. Secret drive F was filled with photos of John Watson. The younger Holmes was as possessive as the older one, but slightly worse in hiding it. John didn’t even know how many times he posed for Sherlock. John napping on the couch in the living room. John sleeping in his bedroom. John reading the newspaper, washing dishes, cleaning teeth…

Mycroft wasn’t surprised when she found the photos, more surprising was the fact that Sherlock kept them in the flat when John could find them. But apparently the good doctor trusted her brother and he never ever thought about it.

////////////////////

In completely natural way Mycroft added Greg to her daily routine of observing people. She monitored everything that could be monitored and few things that were theoretically impossible to monitoring. The global weapon market, stocks across the globe, political movements and non – political manifestations of strength. Hidden or not. She guarded interests of England and still found time for physiotherapy for her knee. Slowly but it was going forward. Mycroft was stubborn and she knew hard work. She watched everything and everyone. She stopped at least two crisis per day. But above all she monitored people close to her. She did it between her work but she never stopped. People close to Mycroft always were exposed to danger. How many times Anthea needed more bodyguards? How often in Baker Street exploded something that wasn’t Sherlock’s experiment? Only mummy was safe, because she sat in one place. The rest of the family liked moving.

The definition of family wasn’t classic. It was people with whom she could talk outside the work, people who never tried to blackmailed her or gathered information and sold them. She didn’t knew many people like that. It was all right, because she didn’t know how she would protect them if there were more of them.

Greg joined to the group after Christmas. He proved that despite his intelligence, and chance to find some information about Mycroft he just brought her cookies and probably never thought about such a possibility. Mycroft was half disappointed and half delighted. Lestrade treated her like his other friends. Apparently his honesty included even grey eminences from British Government.

Lestrade was monitored, but not like Sherlock, he was only aware of CCTV.

“I know, you are watching me through CCTV Mycroft. One day I will just take off my pants and…”  
“Knowing you, you will arrest yourself for indecency and I will have nice photos to blackmail you.”  
“No, but seriously, Mycroft.” Greg stopped laughing, took sip of a tea and gave her serious look. “ I am very ordinary, uninteresting nearly divorced man. Why you fuss with the cameras?”

Mycroft didn’t answer just smiled and poured more tea. Sometimes Greg was naïve, but it was charming and sincere. There was no sense to destroy his ideas especially that they formed around Greg protective umbrella. Lestrade didn’t see himself as someone important to Mycroft. And her enemies probably knew that and weren’t interested into him. For now…

Greg probably didn’t suspect that Mycroft monitored also his bills, accounts. She guarded the process of selling his house and she gathered evidences just in case his wife changed her mind and would want something from Greg. 

“Now, when we live separately, I see that we should divorce long time ago.” Greg said and looked at the foam of his beer. 

Mycroft shrugged and took pistachio. Pistachios were perfectly dried and roasted in sea salt and just came from Greek Santorini. Bar in Diogenes Club specialized in sophisticated nuts compositions and very good beer. On Wednesdays also there was evening you could talk normally at the bar.

“I just stuck and thought it should be like that.” Greg went on, taking full advantage of Wednesday’s privilege. “We get used to each other. And you think that maybe you are happy, but you are too busy to see it.”  
“I don’t know. I never stand still.” Mycroft confessed and looked closer on the pistachio. Small, green, brown. Perfect. “I also don’t look for something as illusory as happiness.”

Greg looked surprised.

“Well, but you do all those things…” He pointed around the club room, lined with inlaid wood with hand made lamps from Italy and Renaissance paintings. “For some reason. Not money, because you have it, you also have mansions, power, but you still working, constantly, still giving one hundred and fifty percent of yourself. Why?”

“British Government needs someone like me. When honest and wise people rules, simpletons and fools follow orders, but when simpletons and fools rule, honest and wise become rebels. It is not easy to be wise in our crazy time, but I try.”

“So what have you got from that?”

“Very well slated pistachio.” Mycroft replied with a smile and ate one nut. “When we talk about happiness, it is useful only because it made disaster possible. I always thought that Proust was able to elegantly summarize the human condition.” 

Greg laughed, eyes half closed.

“You are impossible, Mycroft.”  
“I am more than possible Greg, I am practical.” Mycroft nodded at bartender and he gave them another beer.   
“And you Greg? What is happiness to you? You work in poorly paid job for eighteen hours per day. You are stressed and taking part in shootings and then you have tons of paperwork which you hate. Your promotion is a myth, your marriage mistake. So Why? Why are you doing this?”

For a long time Greg chewed pistachio and stared at the window. And he looked lonely. It shouldn’t be like this. Mycroft suddenly thought. 

“I do this, because I am needed.” Greg replied and looked straight into her eyes. “Whatever you say, no matter what quotes you bring up. I know that you are doing your job because of the same thing.”  
“So this is an answer for my question about happiness. For so called normal people happiness is home, family, a weekend which you don’t have to work just sit on a couch. I am not questioning, everyone has their own way but you can’t get high like that, you are stuck, with loans, instalments with fatigue, which soon takes your willingness to everything, even for your work not to mention family, considering how much people are convinced that family was given. Given once for forever and it is indestructible.”

Greg measured her with intense gaze. Somehow he looked younger and a little scared of her. 

“You are scaring me, mostly because you may be right.” Lestrade murmured and drank the rest of his beer.  
“I am right detective inspector. And you have right to be scared.” Mycroft said quietly and Greg folded his arms on his chest.  
“But what with the time when we will be too old for our works?”  
“In my case Caribbean. In yours I have no idea. I can take you with me.”

Tension disappeared because of laughter which didn’t solve the problem, but at least made some distance.

“I am very thankful madame.”  
“No problem, my dear, even I do charity work sometimes. It is good for image plus I have to talk to someone when finally I will fly to Caribbean.”  
“I am not like you, Mycroft. For me to be happy is needed the second person.”  
“This is you’re the biggest weakness. I understand the sentiment, but believe me, it is easier to buy tropical island then find someone who would not betray or sell you.”  
“I don’t think I could sell someone.” Greg said. Mycroft patted his shoulder, gave him almonds in honey and said.  
“And that is why my dear friend I am taking you with me to the Caribbean.

////

Mycroft watched Greg when he was going to work, riding to the crime place, arguing with Sherlock, or drinking beer with friends. Without his wife he lived exactly the same, Every day he practised on shooting range, two times in week he cleaned the kitchen. Every Friday he was hanging around supermarket and made grocery for entire week. Mycroft escorted Greg with CCTV eyes when he went to his empty home, where he sat tired with head in his hands. Mycroft installed only one camera in his house, in the bedroom where she slept. 

Awful, snowy winter slowly passed and muddy, cold rainy spring arrived. In March Mycroft signed very beneficial contract for import and export of grain. Sherlock again got himself in trouble. This time it was possession of hard drugs. Greg did everything to not find them, but he did. Sherlock again didn’t speak to world, lying on the couch. John was worried and asked Mycroft of some sort of therapy for his flatmate.

“I don’t think there is a therapy that can help him, doctor.” Mycroft said quietly as Sherlock snorted from the couch.

In the spring her libido somehow awakened and instead twice in a month she began to visit the exclusive home of erotic trysts once a week. Usually after a meeting with Greg. She liked sex with women and men. But from some time she preferred men. 

“You tastes are changing.” The owner said, lovely Mrs. Gibbs, lady in her sixties with nice smile. “You usually prefer young Frenchs.”

Mycroft smiled and didn’t comment. On the top floor, in her favourite room of old historic building was waiting greyish – brown hair man in his late thirties. That’s why she preferred Mrs. Gibbs house. She could perfectly choose the partner for a night, after few words she knew what you needed. Mature male, strong but friendly, attentive but with handcuffs. Sex with Greg’s replacement was good but not amazing. 

Mycroft never made move towards Greg. Spring didn’t start good for everyone.

In March Greg was in court on his divorce hearing. His ex wife tried to squeezed as much money as it was possible. Anthea expressed need of tearing out all of that bitch hair, one by one. Mycroft almost agreed, but her diplomatic sense protested. So she unlashed banks. Suddenly every institution wanted immediate repayment of debts, payments and credit cards charges. 

So Greg divorced really quickly, but Mycroft wasn’t happy. Greg stuck in a morbid humour then was sadness, he was grieving and Mycroft hated seeing him like that. The selling of the house wasn’t as easy as Greg thought. Not in recession times. Mycroft waited. In few months one of her trusted would buy it and Greg would be finally free.

Lestrade didn’t say what he was planning next. Probably there wasn’t plan at all. 

“I am not buying home to sit there alone and I am too old for renting. I can move to my work. After all I spend there eighty percent of my time.”

Mycroft wanted to tell him, that she had spare bedroom, but she knew how he would react. Greg liked independence. They could laugh, eat or joke together about tropical islands, but at the end of day detective inspector wanted to go to his own home. Mycroft took these returning with mixed feelings. Sometimes it was hard to say good bye and sometimes she wanted to be alone in her mansion like it was always.

Greg was depressed. Sherlock sent texts to Mycroft about inspector. How big pain in the ass he became, petty and tacky. Older Holmes knew that Greg had hard time in his life, but he would not harm anyone. No, Greg was too honest and fair. He worked for three, slept for one and ate for a half of his old self. No one noticed. Not family or friends, not even Sherlock. She was better observer then him. And she didn’t like what she observed.

In April Greg announced that he didn’t have strength and time for their meetings. So she just went to Yard, grabbed his arm and took him to her limousine. Greg didn’t protest, he went after her like during that bizarre Christmas.

They didn’t talk much, but they made priorities. Greg needed routine, stability and someone who would support him. First two weren’t a problem for Mycroft, the third was manageable.

“Just say yes. Only weekends. I can’t watch you killing yourself in your looking for happiness.”  
“Okay, but only Sundays.”

It was their new shedule. Sundays. No one interrupted them. Neither Queen nor Anthea.

/////////////////

Sooner or later her enemies would want to use Greg. That’s how world worked. Mycroft was big fish among other big fish. So people close to her were in constant danger.

Her enemies tried to buy Sherlock, but it was impossible. He was too clever and always three steps before them.

“You will pay me as much as Mycroft is paying for my living. For next fifty or sixty years. And I will tell you about my childhood memories, you know dogs, cats, rolls with blueberries. “

Mycroft listened with amusement when blackmailers just run away. And never returned. Sherlock always handled them without John, probably, because doctor in his worse days was also a soldier and had a gun. They tried with Anthea, intimidating and promising gold mountains. And she always told them to fuck off with irritation. She was more iron then Margaret Thatcher. And she was always safe with guards at the door.

Greg with his police career and knowledge about one on the most influential human being in the world was in constant danger. They never talked about that. But as a very practical woman Mycroft was ready.

Finally one of drug bosses decided to pay a visit to Greg, Mycroft was at international congress in Canada. Lots of politicians, experts and economists, lots of money and words. 

Anthea sent her a text. “They have him. I will take care of everything. Call him when you’re done.”

Greg coped surprisingly well with home visit of drug cartel. He sent a message about a robbery, took pictures of cars parked in front of his house and shot one of the bodyguards of Ferrero. The rest was not so successful. He was pretty badly beaten. The whole situation was swept under the carpet. No accusations, no investigations. Ferrero disappeared forever. He wasn’t the first or the last victim of overdose who was found in the Channel.

Prime Minister announced Mycroft that he didn’t know and didn’t hear anything about destroying one of the biggest cartel in England. They drank tea arranged a round of golf for a next Tuesday and then she finally went to Greg.

Lestrade looked like tractor run over him. Several times.

“I don’t want to stay here.” He said when he saw Mycroft. “Do something and take me home, I know you can.”  
“I can, but I shouldn’t.” Mycroft began, but seeing very stubborn face of Greg she knew she wouldn’t win this time. She had to know things like that after all she was sister of Sherlock Holmes.

“All right, I will talk to your doctor. But I have one condition, you are staying at my pace. Yours is not safe now.”

Battered, purple faced Greg lost his determination for a moment, he was only a picture of fatigue and pain. He fall back on the pillow, closed his eyes and nodded.

“Okay, take me home.”

He didn’t say your home, she took it as a good sign. In the end, maybe step by step her house would become his house. Doctor didn’t make any trouble and allowed Greg to go home earlier. Half an hour later Mycroft and Greg in wheelchair went to her limousine.

Greg fall asleep immediately when they sat down in the car. His head on Mycroft’s shoulder. She didn’t know how to react. Awkwardly she put her arm around Greg and patted his shoulder tentatively. Anthea smiled

“Oh, shut up.”  
“I said nothing.”

Greg slept for first few says and next few days he grumbled that Mycroft shouldn’t fuss so much. He wasn’t stupid so he found out that she liquidated criminal organization that attacked him. He was not happy, but Mycroft was skilled in negotiation in such situations, she always managed hysterical mummy, so it wasn’t very hard. She promised him that next time she would leave dangerous criminal for him. They had fight over dinner but during breakfast everything was all right. They couldn’t be angry at themselves too long.

Mycroft persuaded Greg to say for Easter. This time she had to go for family breakfast so she needed someone normal to help. Lestrade was the only option. Besides he didn’t like family gatherings to. 

“I will have to listen to my mother talking about my divorce and how much failure I am. Or my cousins talking and talking about their children.”  
”You can stay as long as you want.” Mycroft said with a smile.

Easter at Holmes’ household passed without drama. Mummy was in a good condition after her Italy trip. Sherlock invited John so no one cared about Mycroft. They liked John but also they expressed regret that Sherlock homosexuality was standing in the way for an heir. 

“They are worse than drunk Harry.” Watson announced in a stage whisper.   
“Yep, they are.” Sherlock surprisingly agreed without any comments. 

Mycroft quickly came back under the pretext of stomach ache. So she spent evening with Greg and Doctor Who. Everything was perfect and as always it couldn’t last long.

////

After Easter Mycroft made a mistake. She wanted to take care of things too quickly. She wasn’t careful enough when she facilitated Greg’s promotion. Not big, but more money and privileges in administration. At first Greg was happy, but then he heard rumours. He didn’t go to her immediately. He didn’t rush things, he did research. Loans, divorce, house. Mycroft watched Greg discovering a web she made around him and she couldn’t bring herself to do anything about that.

She didn’t notice when she made this to Greg. Supervised golden cage. If Greg was not detective he would probably just happily live with Mycroft, but he dig under the surface. For now he didn’t judge, but he wanted to know how much of his life belonged to Mycroft.

“You fucked up dear sister.” Sherlock said over the newspaper. “Oh and I am not going to take your investigation.”

Mycroft had a desire to grab a tray and threw it in Sherlock. John probably saw this in her eyes, because he quickly took files from her.

“Greg is a good man and he can understand lots of things.” John said.  
“Yes, he will understand that he has to run, before she take over his whole life.”  
“Sherlock!”  
“Come on, John. You see what is going on here. Mycroft doesn’t have enough people to love so she found another victim.”

Mycroft didn’t say good bye.

Two days later Greg came to her office. It was nasty April day. Cold, grey and wet. When she looked at him she knew why he was here. It was really nice to have a friend for some time. But Mycroft was Mycroft. She couldn’t and probably didn’t want to change. If only Greg realized that she didn’t want to harm him. It was just a way to… She was different from most people and thought in different categories. If only Greg allowed her to… like John allowed Sherlock. They could work it out. But Greg was not John. Greg was bitter cop with bitchy ex wife. When Lestrade began his lecture about disappointment, about trust and control and maniacs with CCTV. Mycroft almost convinced herself that she didn’t need detective inspector. She didn’t need anyone. She was an iceberg and the nickname really suited her.

“I would never suspect that you are capable of that! My credits, my instalments, Everything you paid! What do you want Mycroft? Really, because I don’t understand, I don’ t want to understand! You just… You can’t buy people. Why do you want to control me? It was good as it was, Mycroft.”

It wasn’t She wanted him for herself. Because she was emotionally alienated and probably had control issues. 

“I came to you as a friend. You knew about my divorce, about my work… You knew everything!” Greg said in raised voice and finally slammed his fist on Mycroft’s desk. “I trusted you and you behind my back solve all of my problems! Living my life! Hell, Mycroft, don’t you have your own life?”

Greg paused, looking at Mycroft. She stood up and went to the window. London sunk in fog. As always, as always…

“You should go, Greg. You and me have lot of work today.”

She heard Greg improved his suit and went away.

“Good bye, Mycroft.”

She didn’t replied.

///////////////////////

The next few weeks were pointless, impractical, emotionally strange. She had to get used to not receive texts about weather, not eat breakfast with someone, no talking during Wednesdays’ evenings at Diogenes. She worked all the time, no time for melancholy or sorrow. She barely ate. Also she didn’t have desire for sex. When she went to Mrs Gibbs she just drank gin and went home. She didn’t also wanted to see mummy so she said her she was busy. 

She lost weight and slept only on pills. She stopped eating Tesco cookies and monitoring Sherlock. One good thing her sugar level was excellent. 

One Friday Sherlock called and began to demand help with releasing him from arrest. 

“No, start taking care of yourself Sherlock.” And with these words she hung up. She didn’t know if John paid for Sherlock, probably he did. It wasn’t important.

Work was good, helpful. She was like a machine, success after success. Anthea watched her with growing concern and started inquiring about Greg. Mycroft rudely snarled something about employee and employer and that her coffee is too sweet and she wanted another one. No sugar, no cream. Anthea looked at her with sympathy, Mycroft hated that. 

In early May, quite late in the evening Sherlock came to her mansion. With John of course. It was a miracle that he didn’t hide doctor Watson in his breast pocket. Mycroft greeted them and they went to the living room. Sherlock come to point immediately.

“Mycroft, Moriarty is in town and from the bodies he left it is visible that you are his only aim. Lestrade and the rest do what they can, but you know how intelligent they are so before they find something you will be dead.”

Mycroft sighed and rubbed her tired face. It was a long day. She was too tired for some freak who wanted to play chess with Sherlock.

“Maybe you go for some vacation, out of London for few days, while Sherlock…” John began, but Mycroft cut in.  
“I am staying here, I am in the middle of something important.” She said flatly. Sherlock stared at her face. The younger Holmes narrowed his eyes.  
“You know that I chose Greg for you? You were maniacal in your loneliness. Lestrade perfectly suited to be your friend. And I needed someone in police who was not as stupid as the rest. He was perfect, unfaithful wife, instalments for a house, innocence and simplicity.”   
“It crossed my mind.” Mycroft nodded, ignoring painful twinge in her chest. “But you can’t guess how will friendship go.”  
“Friendship is not…

Everything happened very quickly. Anthea entered the living room with papers and files. John poured himself tea and Mycroft raised a cup to her mouth. Eight shots, for two on the head. From nearby house, right in the window. Anthea screamed, papers scattered. John dived under the table taking Sherlock with himself. Mycroft with the feeling that it was dream observed how the first shot broke her favourite blue tea cup. 

She didn’t remember the second shot.

//////////

She woke up in the ambulance. Someone was holding her in sitting position and bandaged her chest, someone was talking to her. “Don’t move, easy, it is okay.” The bullet went clean through the lung. She was in shock. Her legs dangling from the opened doors of the ambulance, she didn’t feel the pain. She was just very, very cold. Even the orange blanket didn’t help. In the distance she saw John leaning over lying on the stretcher Sherlock and pale as a ghost Anthea standing nearby with blood on her suit.

People watched the spectacle Two ambulances, two police cars. Lights and sirens. Another police car arrived almost hitting one of the doctors. No, not a police car, Mercedes. 

Greg jumped out of the car, slammed the door and began to walk fast. He was wearing two days shirt, rumpled jacket and jeans. There was no doubt to whom he was going. He looked straight into Mycroft eyes and ran faster and faster.

“Mycroft!”

Mycroft stared at him with confusion.


	4. World without you

Sherlock was lucky and he had his Watson. John pulled the younger Holmes of the line of fire and only because of that Sherlock was shot in the shoulder not head. It was quite complicated shot, which broke his collarbone, shoulder joint, bone. Sherlock required rehabilitation. Doctor Watson and Anthea didn’t get shot. Mycroft listened to the report about his brother health and stared at the window in her room in the hospital. 

Greg was sitting beside her bed and hold her hand. He was talking. Something comforting. Mycroft didn’t need consolation. She came out of the shock, she wanted to sleep, fly away. But she couldn’t, because someone had to think.

Now she had to be few steps ahead of Moriarty. They had to regroup. There wasn’t anyone who could replace Mycroft so she had to do her job. She gave orders to Anthea who quickly went away. It was necessary to make sure John and Sherlock were safe and also Mrs Hudson. She had to checked if someone hacked her computers and probably called Prime Minister and Prince of Wales. 

Moriarty turned to be much more clever, unpredictable player then she thought. She had to catch him and it would be harder task then she suspected. Not good. He started a war, but she was the one who was going to win. She would start as soon as her lung with a bullet hole stopped being so painful even when she was on painkillers.

Greg didn’t stop talking, something about rest and that they had to talk and he was scared. Mycroft listened and didn’t know what to do. 

After a dramatic hug in the ambulance, which was very honest and very natural, she was silent. Very unnatural. Mycroft explained it with shock, gunshot and generally her poor condition. Almost she didn’t remember the way to the hospital, but she remembered being scared to see Greg so close, no barriers.

Lestrade paused for a moment and looked at her still holding her hand. And started quietly.

“I am sorry.” He whispered, stroking her hand. “I was stupid and you were the best thing that happened in my life. I don’t know, I think I had to kick you to see if you are real.”

Mycroft didn’t feel offended that Lestrade called her a thing. Yes, many people who met her, saw her as a kind of disaster, like the worst thing that could happen to you was to cross the roads with Mycroft Holmes. Beautiful apocalypse, manipulative, compulsive voyeur, no feelings, just game. Greg saw it differently, because he was short-sighted and naïve. Mycroft closed her eyes. Her hand between Gregs.

“You are tired Mycroft. Sleep. I will sit here with you.”

Greg wasn’t discouraged by her silence. His voice was steady and nice, hands warm and strong. He came back, he offered himself again, his friendship and not directly something more. Whatever it was, Mycroft was afraid and she didn’t like it. It was uncomfortable. Maybe she was still in shock. Maybe she still saw how her favourite blue tea cup was converted in thousands of pieces.

Greg was talking, night was getting darker and IV was full of delicious painkillers that made her head light. She fall asleep. Greg didn’t go away.

It was hard to breathe, as if someone pressed something heavy to her chest. Her dreams were strange, disturbing. Mummy sitting on the bed and staring blankly at the ceiling, absently stroking her too still dog. Sherlock lying on the pavement with his head smashed and his precious, unique brain all over there. John who was crying without tears. Anthea in black suit in the grave yard and Greg. His hands made nightmares went away. His warm, wiry hands touching her cheeks, head, neck and shoulder. It would be okay, okay, okay. You had to remember hot chocolate, and salted pistachios.

Memory of the pistachios helped her finding small spot in her dreams without awful images. She fall asleep somewhere in the morning, exhausted of breathing that reminded her of some kind of extreme sport. 

///////

She had to be practical. She knew how to be.

This kind of things didn’t happen to people like Mycroft, after all she was an iceberg. She predicted and deduced and she was smarter than Sherlock. It was hard to surprise her, even in romantic cases. She exactly knew how her love affair with Greg would start but she also predicted how it could end. Very confusing, destructive and painful end of a dream. And she was all right with that, there was no place for romantic things in her life. She wasn’t as beautiful as Sherlock. She was more common, had prominent nose and hair in strange colour. But these weren’t so much important. She was also cynical and well aware of her fate. Loneliness, it didn’t bother so much, maybe sometimes at night when she sat with her computer and cognac. But normally she was able to accept that it was better to be alone.

Normally the difference between how it was and how it should be didn’t bother her. However now she didn’t know how to maintain her cynical distance anymore. Somewhere between the episodes of Doctor Who she allowed Greg to discover who she really was. And Greg came back. After forty eight hours of work, nap on the desk. When Sherlock texted him, he just get to the car and came back. 

Mycroft remembered little of what happened in the ambulance. Stunned, shocked, sitting in the bandages with Greg who was assuring her and improving her orange blanket. Normally she would laugh. But she allowed him for this closeness and she fall asleep in his arms.

Lestrade acted on impulse. He wasn’t afraid of her silence, lack of answers. Greg invited himself into her loneliness and he announced that he was going to watch her during her rest. Anthea accepted his presence with relief.

But first he hesitated. He wasn’t sure but after Moriarty’s attack he came. Apparently he was more tied to his diabetic in spe than he expected.

Mycroft left the hospital after four days. The lung was damaged, but it was nothing that couldn’t be treated at home. Greg took his first vacation since five years and drove her to the mansion, he didn’t care about limousine. Mycroft didn’t either, because she was still packed with painkillers, confused and dizzy. She fall asleep in the car. When she woke up they were on her driveway and Greg was touching her shoulder.

“We are at home.”

She said something or maybe just try to say something. Greg wrapped blanket tighter around her shoulders and pulled her out of the car. Slowly and carefully. She had to sleep deeper then she thought, because she didn’t remember the blanket.

Anthea was waiting in the mansion. Everything was prepared. More guards and other security things. 

Greg helped her with coat and shoes and slowly lead her to the living room. When he transported her to the couch he disappeared for a while. She heard him talking to Anthea.

“You can go home, I will stay with her for few days.”

It was pity that only few days. Thought crossed Mycroft mind and she began dozing off. When she woke up again she was also covered in blanket. Greg sat next to her and remote control in his hand. Doctor just purchased himself a new companion. Ginger head, funny. Mycroft clung to Greg’s side. Nice and cozy.

///////

Greg helped Mycroft with everything and did it with unforced grace and smile. He and Anthea followed footage. He called mummy and told her that her children wouldn’t come to dinner or tea. Greg even visited Sherlock who was out of hospital full of painkillers and bored so much that he play a fortune teller and said how they would die.

“Can you believe he told Mrs Hudson that she will die because of her weak heart.” Greg couldn’t stop laughing. Mycroft grunted affirmatively from her plate of chicken soup.   
“Let me guess, diabetes?”  
“Yep, diabetes, but don’t worry, I will get stroke. “ Greg didn’t had problems with joking about his own death.   
“The strangest is however , when Sherlock started talking about John, that he should die in old age in his own bed, but probably he will get shot somewhere before. It upset Sherlock that much that John gave him double dose of painkillers and packed to bed.”  
“It is good that he has someone like John, there is slim chance he will make to his forties.” Mycroft sighed and pushed away uneaten soup. “I am tired.”

Without words Greg collected plates. He was washing them but he was also thinking about something intensely.

“Sherlock said he chose me for you, so you as he nicely described, could find me and don’t go crazy.” 

He used light, carefree tone, but it couldn’t fooled Mycroft. Yes, it was so very like Sherlock, he couldn’t stand his attachment to John so he had to try to destroy something. 

“My brother can deduce many things and arranged them, but he can’t arrange friendship.” Mycroft said wryly, expecting quarrel. Nothing happened. Greg turned from the sink, the watchful gaze at her. Corners of his mouth twitched slightly.   
“God, you are falling asleep here and I am talking about Sherlock and his hallucinations. Come on it is my turn to transport Holmes to bedroom.”

Mycroft didn’t protest. She leaned on the Greg’s arm and felt how tired she was. She could fall asleep standing. Lestrade took her upstairs. She tried to thank him, but Greg cut it with short, gentle words.

“Stop, Mycroft. I am you friend and friends help each other.”

////////////////////

For the next few days she slept, between naps she sent mails and watched with Greg TV series which she really didn’t know what was going about. Greg didn’t leave the mansion at all. Mycroft was pleasantly surprised. They didn’t talk about the action and ambulance, but it hung in the air.

She didn’t want to talk about it yet. Greg didn’t press, he waited calmly. If he was already in twisted kind of relationship with the iceberg. He wasn’t afraid, he just watched.

It seemed that Greg knew something that Mycroft didn’t and she didn’t like it.

“You are an intelligent man, Greg. You could find better place for vacation than my mansion.” Mycroft pointed out and took a sip of her chamomile tea.

Greg was sitting on a rattan chair on the terrace and allowed June evening lazily rolled over him, warm and purple – gold. Garden smelled incredibly and Mycroft wondered when she smelled it last time. 

Greg didn’t react to Mycroft jab he just sat and smile.

“You know that I was also unfaithful to her?” He asked casually.  
“You had three lovers.” Mycroft recited softly. “Quite a modest number of lovers, since your marriage last so long.”

Greg laughed.

“Well I thought you will condemn me.”  
“No, Greg I saw betrayal at which yours seem quite good natured.”

They laughed together, simply, honestly. Greg’s face was very close to hers. Mycroft decided she could get used to that. To company. And she began regret that they didn’t meet before his wife, before her internal practical fortress. Now it was too late.

///////////////

The first time Greg kissed Mycroft was over the breakfast, Holmes came slowly down the stairs, still sleepy and a little stiff. She hated heat in London. No sun just hot days without fresh air. Exhausting. They needed real vacation. Maybe sea. Yes sea was good idea. She improved her bandage and went to the kitchen.

Greg was making coffee, all happy after his jogging. He was wearing shorts and miserable rumpled t-shirt. How people could run in such heat, Mycroft didn’t know. And yes Gregory had strength to smile. She would probably just die.

“We shell go to seaside.” Mycroft said and sat down at the table. “We earn for our vacation and I can’t breathe here, Prime Minister will understand.”

Greg set before her a cup of coffee, looked at her with soft eyes and then leaned over and kissed her on the lips. He tastes like mint and coffee. Mycroft didn’t have words for that. Stunned she sat there allowing him to kiss, but not responding. Greg finally pulled away. His face was tanned, he had small wrinkles in the corners of his mouth and around eyes. And for Mycroft he was the most beautiful thing she had seen in her life.

Of course she couldn’t say a word and Greg didn’t need words. He just smiled, turned and began to pull products for breakfast from the fridge, whistling ACDC.

The rest of the day passed normally. They weren’t talking about the kiss. Mycroft had a feeling that they came to very nicely tailored, beautiful trap and she knew who was behind it.

“What did you say to Greg, Sherlock. MH”  
“Wait until she gets used to you. Don’t leave. Simple commands, but I don’t know if Lestrade understood. SH”

Greg understood very well. Mycroft stretched on her bed, close her eyes and concentrated. Facts, decisions and conclusions. It would be good to have someone like Lestrade. In the end where was no harm in trying? There were no signs that in next three years she was going to meet anyone worth her attention. 

Another breakfasts brought more kisses. Mycroft didn’t protest, she even initiated them. They ate, talked about nothings, washed the dishes and then sat and drank tea or coffee. When Mycroft was somewhere in the middle of the cup Greg kissed her. Sometimes briefly, sometimes long with tongue and hunger. Greg hold her face gently. She didn’t feel ashamed of liking this. Everything in their breakfasts was intimate from tomato salad to kisses.

It was one of the most interesting Junes in her life. She didn’t care about revolt in Egypt or protests in Spain. Nothing could disturbed her June with Greg.

They didn’t go anywhere. Greg sometimes arrived in Yard when something important happened and Mycroft still had problems with her lung so she worked from her home office. Anthea categorically forbade her appear at work or ate a lunch with delegation of Saudi Arabia.

“Before, you were so tired that you would scare these Arabs. Now you are smiling all the time and that will scare them even more.”  
“Anthea, dear, how about you and Henry go to Arabia for holiday. You will meet Royal Family, you will gossip…”  
“And I will make appointment with prince Achim.” Anthea smiled and drank her espresso. “Skype or phone?”  
“You now I hate those internet things, normal phone please.”

Anthea nodded and left the room with tapping of her Louboutin heels. Greg observed them with suspicious smile

“You just survived an attempt of murder and now you are trying to take over the world.”  
“Just because there is no one better to do this.” Mycroft replied politely. “Now, you can kiss me.”

She didn’t know why she told that. More surprising was the fact that Lestrade bent and with crooked smile kissed her. The world stop spinning for a moment. Mycroft pulled away and then realized how deeply she stepped.

“You look pale. Told you need more rest. Lungs are very important. You can’t just ignore them.”

Greg said something more, but Mycroft was no longer listening. She was preparing for the panic attack or fury and breaking all contact, but there was no panic attack. Greg looked at her intensely. He said nothing.

In the end of the day Mycroft worked for two. Phone calls, video conferences, negotiations. Greg had to be at Yard for some extremely important case. Mycroft didn’t check what was that, she tried not to even think about it.

When Greg came back, there was something natural in it. It was dark and only Mycrofts’ computers gave light. Mycroft left all of her computers turned on only because she wanted to see Greg in the corridor. She had to have something on her face, because Greg stopped in mid – sentence his tirade about stupidity of some policemen and grabbed Mycroft’s hand.

“Come on.”

Sex with Greg was one of the best events in Mycroft’s life. Greg without asking or explaining led her to her bedroom. Greg was kissing her, constantly. She allowed him to bite and lick. There were no acrobatics he held her like he was afraid she could disappear. In fact he didn’t allow her to do anything expect accepting what he had for her.

Technically they were average, but in every other aspect it was amazing. They both were hungry and didn’t do this with someone they really wanted for years. 

Maybe they were more alike than they wanted to admit.

They laid on the bed, tired and out of breathe. Greg ran his hand through Mycroft belly and exhale.

“I think I hurt my back.”  
“Poor thing.” Mycroft rolled her eyes and began the hard task of taking off her shirt. Hellish cuffs and double buttons. Greg followed her footsteps and finally they were completely naked. Greg smiled to her.  
“I will never suspect I will have sex with my clothes on in my age.”  
“Life is full of surprises.” Mycroft replied philosophically, feeling her eyelids wanted to close. “Shower…”  
“Screw the shower, I am not going anywhere.” Greg held Mycroft hand. “You are staying here too.”

This one and only time she decided not to argue.

////////////////////

Greg insisted that he would buy his home from her. Mycroft agreed and accepted the money and the same day she subsidized the Yard. Even Sherlock wouldn’t know where the money came from. She was that good. 

“In nature nothing is lost.” Mycroft said and kissed Greg on the cheek. “And you got your house back, but I would prefer that we live together.”  
“We already live together, Mycroft. I just need some space that is my own.” Greg ran his hand through her hair and laughed with her unhappy face. “But I will not run away, I am too brave.”

Bravery was a nicer term for stupidity she wanted to tell. But she didn’t believe in that anymore. Greg was brave in every meaning of this word. Not everyone had enough courage to get closer to the iceberg, Greg was not only brave but also dedicated and loyal and what was more he could stand Mycroft. With all of her pedantry, work, days of malice towards herself and the world, with her desire of watching everyone, protect and intervene and even with her night trips after chocolate bars. 

“I am not going to run, if I do I will always come back when I calm down. I promise.”  
“I know.” Mycroft said and only superficially it was a response unrelated to the conversation.

Few days later Anthea showed Henry Greg’s house. And so like that everything stayed in family. Lestrade sensed something, but didn’t share his suspicious. Mycroft suspected it was about garden.

“You have too big garden for decent barbecue.” Greg used to say during their breakfasts. “For barbecue you need small, crowded space not national park named after Queen Victoria.”

Anthea and Henry liked organizing barbecues and always invited Greg and Mycroft plus mummy, but she always refused. John always dragged Sherlock, because he should socialize a bit.

“Surly, Sherlock had to tell you something about me. Something that made you drag me to the bedroom that day.”  
“Do you want me to tell you now bunch of compliments of how sexy and alluring you are and I couldn’t simply resist you?” Greg said jokingly and bit Mycroft’s shoulder. She murmured something offended.  
“Do not change the subject. My deductions are far more accurate then Sherlocks and I know that something happened to you.”

They laid lazily in bed and waited for sleep. No sex today, they were too tired. She laid on her back staring at ceiling. Greg’s head was on her shoulder he looked at the window. Mycroft stroked his hair and kissed his forehead.

“I know you are hiding something.”  
“I don’t hide anything.” Greg said in nice low voice. “Sherlock didn’t say anything.”  
“So it was John.” Mycroft smiled at purple darkness. Greg nodded his head and moved closer.   
“John said I should think about world without you.”

Silence, silence. Mycroft translated advice for herself she stopped, struck by the image. World without Greg. Very empty world of forever lonely breakfasts in cold kitchen, the Christmas neurosis, cognac and sleeping pills, no texts about weather, no morning sex. No troubles with another person, no colours, no taste, no life. Worthless. Unacceptable, ridiculous world. John said from autopsy, his world without Sherlock was also unbearable. 

Greg slid his knee between her legs moving even closer. 

“So, world without me.” Mycroft whispered and looked curiously at Greg. “That’s it?”

Greg was silent for a moment, then slowly he kissed Mycroft’s shoulder.

“For me, it was enough.”


End file.
